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“ Uncle Alex and Aunt Rachel.” 



SOUTHERN 


PLANTATION STORIES 
AND SKETCHES 


BY 

GEORGE E. WILEY, M.D. 

M ' 

Bristol, Va. 

Member of The American Medical Association and 
Medical Society of Virginia. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

FEANK S. DIXON 

Neav York 





) o 



NEW YORK 
1905 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 26 1905 

CopyriffM Entry 
'cuss XXC. No. 

! 3 3 jn 

COPY B< 


Copyright, 1905, nv 
G. E. WILEY 



Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 


THESE STORIES ARE DEDICATED 

TO THE 

OLD EMORY AND HENRY COLLEGE BOYS 


WITH 


AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE 
OF THE HAPPY DAYS WE SPENT THERE TOGETHER 
AND THE TALES WE HAVE HEARD 
FROM OLD UNCLE HARVY KING 


AND WESLEY WOODSON 












CONTENTS 


I 

II 

III 

IV 
V 

VI 


i VII 
VIII 
IX 
X 
XI 
XII 


Publishers’ Note 

Preface 

Uncle Alex and the Mule 
Uncle Phil’s Visit to Heaven . 

Uncle Fred and the Yellow Jackets . 

The Corn Shucking 

The Snake Charmer 

How THE Little Boy Got Frightened at 
the Candle Moulds .... 

How THE Little Boys Broke Up a Revival 
The Cabin in the Woods .... 

The Blind Fiddler 

An Adventure 

Whipped into Manhood .... 
The Meanest Man in the World 


PAGE 

5 

11 

13 

29 

35 

41 

53 

61 

65 

73 

83 

93 

103 

121 












PUBLISHEKS^ ^TOTE 


H E Publishers of this volume of negro dialect 
stories and sketches wish to say that it is 
unique in that the author is the first person 
since the war between the Horth and South 
that has undertaken the great and humane task of 
providing local homes for the old, worn out ex-slaves 
in the Southern States. 

He has started a movement by which he hopes 
to secure such a home in Southwest Virginia. The 
plan is to purchase a few hundred acres of land 
suitable for agricultural purposes, truck gardening, 
poultry raising, etc. 

Employment thus giving to those able to work 
which will pay their way all or in part, and at the 
same time teach the children that are old enough how 
to farm, garden, cook, and such other practical infor- 
mation as may be valuable to them and others in 
afterlife, while they get the rudiments of an edu- 
cation. 

This plan has met with the endorsement of many 
of the leading men of Virginia as the following 
letters will attest. 



5 



publishers’ note 


Gov. A. J. Montague writes in part : 

I am interested in your project and trust you 
may have such co-operation in establishing the home 
for old, worn out ex-slaves and orphan negro children 
in Southwest Virginia as your meritorious enterprise 
deserves.” 

Ex-Governor J. Hague Tyler says in part : 

I must say I approve most heartily of your plan 
to establish some kind of a home for the worn out 
ex-slaves and orphan negro children of that race 
in Southwest Virginia. Hothing more appropriate 
could be conceived of than to build a home for the 
aged and for the orphaned and helpless children that 
are found among them in such large numbers. I 
pray that God may speed your good work.” 

Judge Jno. A. Buchanan of the Supreme Court of 
Appeals says: 

I heartily approve of your scheme to build a 
home for old, worn out ex-slaves and orphan negro 
children in Southwest Virginia. The people, both 
North and South, v/ho feel an interest in the welfare 
of their country, fear the dangers which threaten it 
from ignorance and vice, and desire to see the orphans 
of an unfortunate race cared for and reared so as to 
fit them for the duties of life, and cannot but approve 
the noble and humane object proposed.” 

Charles E. Vawter, President of the Miller Manual 
Labor School of Virginia, writes in part : 

6 


publishers’ note 


I am president of the Virginia Society of Chari- 
ties and Corrections, and I feel so deeply interested 
in what you propose to do that I hope to enlist (as 
I know I can) the Society in this great work. You 
speak the keynote when you say, help them to help 
themselves. This tells it all. You will add to their 
happiness, their hope, their heaven, by so doing.” 

Hon. Daniel Trigg writes in part: 

I can conceive of no more exalted and worthy 
charity. It is deserving because the people whom 
you would help are comparatively helpless. It is the 
cause of humanity. God grant that you may succeed 
in this undertaking.” 

Judge F. B. Hutton, of the Twenty-third Judicial 
Circuit, writes : 

I most sincerely and earnestly endorse any 
scheme that will make the old ex-slaves’ declining 
years more comfortable. The people of the United 
States who feel an interest in the welfare of their 
country must feel an increasing anxiety over the 
dangers that threaten it arising from ignorance and 
vice, and the training of the orphan negroes on the 
lines you propose would meet the approval of all 
classes of our citizens.” 

Dr. Eobert J. Preston, Superintendent of the 
Southwestern State Hospital, writes in part: 

I approve most cordially this movement. When 
I remember the faithfulness of the negroes during the 
7 


publishers’ note 


Civil War, I feel that a monument should be erected 
to their memory. ^s^othing could be more appro- 
priate than the plan you propose, and by taking the 
orphans of such ex-slaves and training them, thus the 
present evil tendencies might be counteracted and 
their former love and friendship for the whites fos- 
tered and cultivated.” 

Congressman W. P. Brownlow writes in part : 

I am glad to know you are interested in build- 
ing a home for ex-slaves in Southwest Virginia. 
Your cause is certainly a very commendable one and 
I hope for your success.” 

T. W. Jordan, Dean and Professor of Latin in 
the University of Tennessee, writes in part: 

Your effort to provide a refuge for ex-slaves no 
longer able to take care of themselves, meets my 
hearty approval. In it you have the sympathy of 
all who lived among them. Any help given them, 
especially means by which they can partially help 
themselves, is a most commendable charity and I 
earnestly Avish you success.” 

Joseph D. Jarman, President of the State Female 
Yormal School of Virginia, writes in part: 

I cheerfully endorse the idea of building a home 
for old, worn out ex-slaves and orphan negro chil- 
dren in Southwest Virginia. With reference to 
orphan negro children, I will add that both from a 
standpoint of humanity as well as from a considera- 
8 


PUBLISHERS'' XOTE 


tion of the best interest of the State, they should be 
cared for and trained along industrial lines, Avhich 
would tend to make them law-abiding citizens rather 
than vagrants. You certainly deserve to succeed in 
such a work of charity as well as constructive 
philanthropy.’^ 

E. G. Waterhouse, President of Emory and Henry 
College, writes in part: 

I believe an institution, such as you contemplate 
and intend to serve first of all the needy ex-slaves 
and their needy orphan descendants in East Ten- 
nessee and Southwest Virginia, would prove a great 
blessing to the negro, and be such an expression of 
humane interest in his welfare as his past history 
merits, and as the best people of this section un- 
doubtedly feel.” 

United States Senator John AY. Daniel writes in 
part: 

I would like to see you succeed in the home for 
worn out ex-slaves and orphan colored children. An 
institution of this sort, well managed and cared for, 
would do much good.” 

The proceeds from the sale of this book, above cost 
of publication, will be devoted to the purpose of 
assisting in carrying out this humane enterprise 
which seems to us eminently appropriate. 

We bespeak for the volume a large sale. 


9 


1 



I 







i 


f 



1 







PKEFACE 


presenting to the public this little book of 
Short Stories I have had two ends in view: 

First, to entertain the children. Second, 
to record some of the old ante-bellum ne- 
groes’ dialect, phrases, idioms, and shrewd imagery, 
which, in ten years hence, will have passed with him. 

Like his master, the ex-slave has grown hoary in 
the struggle to meet new conditions, but unlike his 
master he has not been able to conquer. Worn with 
the struggle he drops out of life, with no successor in 
his race, no bequeathment of himself to history except 
through the dialect story of the South. 

With him passes also that unique relation be- 
tween master and slave which preserved the old wine 
of bondage in the new bottles of the nineteenth cen- 
tury and left a peculiar cordiality between the two 
after emancipation.” 

The dialect stories in this book are all true, and 
recorded, as I remember them, from the lips of the 
old colored friends of the days of my youth, many of 
whom have passed away. In memory I can see their 
shadowy forms, and hear their tuneful voices. 

The other stories are all based on facts, being there- 
fore more truth than fiction. 


11 


PREFACE 


Many of the faces in the book are genuine pictures 
taken from photographs furnished the artist who 
made the illustrations. I have no apology to offer for 
the imperfections it contains ; indeed, its very imper- 
fections is a kind of recommendation, for it has been 
written more to entertain children than grown up 
people,’’ and naturalness has been aimed at rather 
than rhetoric, and if I succeed in entertaining for an 
hour the boys and girls on rainy days and long winter 
evenings, and make the hours shorter to the sick ones 
while mother reads these stories aloud, my aim has 
been accomplished. 

These stories will be especially interesting to city 
children inasmuch as they portray a phase of country 
life which they have not seen, and never will see, 
because the old-time negro will have become a matter 
of legendary history before they become men and 
women. 

In the story of Whipped Into Manhood,” the 
part in regard to the bear hunt has been partially told 
by my old friend, Chas. B. Cole, in his book of the 
life of Wilburn Walters, an Indian hermit, hunter 
arid trapper; but in this book it is as I have heard 
him relate it when a boy sitting on his knee. The 
characters in this story are all genuine and still 
living, except the old Indian, who has long since 
joined his fathers on the Happy Hunting grounds. 

The Author. 


12 


U^TCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


lURIXG the war the Yankees came along and 
took away every one of our horses, and left 
an old army mule with U. S. branded on his 
shoulder. This old mule was the only thing 
we had, in the way of horse power, to work in the 
corn field or elsewhere. This sole dependence seemed 
very slim, for he was so poor that he could hardly 
walk and was besides lame in his left hind foot. 
Some said he had the foot evil.’’ However that 
may have been, one thing was certain, he had an evil 
foot; for he could do more with his hind feet than 
any living creature I ever saw. 

Although this mule was in such a forlorn condition 
when left at our house, it was not very long before he 
began to pick up a little, and, when he heard anyone 
coming, he would lift up his ears, but they would 
not stay up, they would flop down again. This up- 
and-down movement of his ears was the first sign he 
showed of feeling any better. A curious fact about 
him was, that his eyes did not share in his abject 
appearance, but always looked very bright, even from 
the first. 


13 



SOUTIIERX PLANTATION STORIES 


The little boj said one day that he was going to 
take the U. S. off his shoulder ; for the neighbors said 
that if the Federals came along and saw that they 
would take him away from us, and that, too, when it 
would be corn planting time. Aunt Rachel said, 
“ Honey, how is yo’ gwine ter git it off ? ” The little 
boy said, Why, Aunt Rachel, donT you know how 
to do that ? ’’ She said, Ho, honey, I don’t know 
liow yo’ is gwine ter git dem scars off dat mule’s 
shoulder; dey is done been burnt in dar.” The little 
boy said, Well, Aunt Rachel, I am going to burn 
them out. I am going to rub it with turpentine and 
set it on fire.” She said, Honey, what yo’ think 
dat mule is er gwine ter do while yo’ is settin’ him on 
fire ? ” He replied, Why, mammy, he can’t hold 
his ears up ; how can he hurt me ? ” All right, 
honey ; don’t rub too much on fust. Rub it on whar 
de letters is, fur I knows we is boun’ to git dem let- 
ters off dar some way.” So the little boy rubbed 
turpentine on the letters, and the mule stood quietly 
as if he was asleep — he liked to be rubbed. After he 
got the turpentine on, he lighted a piece of paper and 
started out in the yard. When he got to the door 
with the burning paper, the mule lifted his ears ; but 
about that time the paper went out, and just as soon 
as the fire disappeard, his ears flopped down again. 
He had evidently formed a dislike to fire, when they 
put that U. S. brand on his shoulder. Aunt Rachel 
14 


UNCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


said, I spec’ yo’ had better wait ’till Uncle Alex 
comes in fo’ yo’ tries ter set dat mule on fire, kaze I 
don’t lek de way he lif’ his ears up and switch his 
tail, when yo’ started out wid dat fire. ‘^0, he won’t 
do anything. Aunt Kachel, he won’t know it ’till I 
light it, then I will run in the house.” She said. 
All right, honey.” The little boy got a pine stick 
this time, lighted it, and when he got to the door, the 
mule lifted up his ears again and began to switch his 
tail. When the little boy got out on the ground, the 
mule gave one look at the fire, walked up to the picket 
fence, drew that sore foot up, and hopped over the 
fence on three legs into the garden, just as easy as a 
cat could jump a broom stick, and never touched the 
fence with his sore foot. Aunt Rachel said, R^ow, 
don’t dat beat de Dutch. Dat mule knows fire wen 
he sees it, an’ he standin’ roun’ yere lek he wuz 
mighten nigh dead, and jump dat picket fence jis’ 
as easy as I can go through de gate. Yo’ let dat 
mule ’lone, honey, till Alex comes, kaze he aint er 
gwine ter let yo’ tech him wid fire, if he kin help it. 
Dat mule has done showed his disprobation fur fire, 
an’ is dun showed he aint as nigh dead as he lets on ; 
and ’sides dat, he will tramp de garden all to pieces. 
Come in de house, honey ; de mule is dun showed he 
aint er gwine to have his U. S. took off wid fire. Yo’ 
have to take it off some yuther way. Come on in, 
honey, kaze if yo’ don’t, I is er gwine ter tell ole 
15 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Mistes. Dat mule is sholy not er gwine to ’ject his 
self ter fire.’’ 

About this time Uncle Alex came in from the field 
and said, Look yere, Kachel, wat’s dat mule doin’ 
in de garden?” Uachel told Uncle Alex what had 
happened. Uncle Alex said, Well, I declar to 
gracious, I never thought dat mule could jump dat 
garden fence.” 

He went in and took him by the foretop and led 
him out at the gate, and the mule hopped along on 
three feet, and stumbled over a stick of wood, and 
came near falling down. Aunt Rachel said, I de- 
clar to goodnes, dat mule lettin’ on lek he can’t scacly 
walk, an’ he dun jumped dat picket fence des’ de 
same as any deer. Well, honey dat beats my time.” 
Uncle i\lex led the mule up to the stable lot that had 
a high rail fence around it, and turned him in. The 
mule stood in the corner of the fence with his ears 
dropped down, holding up his sore foot like it was 
giving him great pain. 

The little hoy watched the mule a long time, and 
at last, he went to the house and said, Mammy, 
give me one of those sulphur matches you have been 
saving so long.” She said, Ho sir-ree, yo’ pintedly 
is not gwine ter git nary one of dem matches, kaze 
when dem matches is gone, we is got to keep a fire 
burnin’ all de time, fur if de matches is all gone and 
de fire all goes out, how in de name of de Laud er we 
1C 



UiS^GLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


gwine ter git any mo’ fire started? Iso sir, I can’t 
give yo’ nary one of dem matches, ef de Yankees do 
come an’ git dat ole mule. He ain’t no ’count no 
how, an’ I ain’t had no peace er min’ since dat ole 
mule come on dis place; an’ ’sides dat, even if he 
Avuz, yo’ knows well as I does, dat mule aint gwine 
ter let yo’ tech him wid no match. I is dun seed dat.” 
But all the time she was rummaging around in a box 
to find the matches, for she knew and so did the little 
boy, that she was going to give him the match. So 
sure enough, the old woman got the match and said, 
How dars dat match, an’ mek de mos’ uv it, fur I 
is not er gwine ter give yo’ no mo’ matches fur 
nothin’.” 

The little boy took the match, and slipping up to 
the fence right quietly, lit it, and stuck his hand 
through the crack in the fence, and touched it to the 
turpentine spot on the mule’s shoulder. It flashed 
into a blaze at once, and the mule just went around 
the lot once, then drew up his sore foot, and over the 
rail fence he went, never touching it, and around the 
field he galloped, the turpentine blazing, until at 
last he lay down and wallowed, and thus put the fire 
out. Uncle Alex and Aunt Eachel were standing in 
the yard watching. At last Aunt Rachel said, I 
declar befo’ de Laud, dat boy an’ dat mule beats 
anything I’s eber seed befo’ in my life. Ef anybody 
had tole me dat boy could set dat mule on fire, an’ 
17 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


dat mule could jump dat stake an’ rider fence wid 
three legs, an’ den stinquish de fire on his own self, 
I would not er believed it, but I dun seed him do it 
wid my own eyes. Dat certainly is a ’markable 
mule.” 

* Every day Uncle Alex would wash and grease 
the mule’s burnt shoulder, and he would stand as 
still as a mouse, with his ears flopped down. After 
a while his burn got entirely well, the IT. S. had dis- 
appeared from his shoulder, and he began to get some 
flesh on his bones. But there was one thing you 
could not do, — ^keep him in any lot or field he did not 
want to stay in. Uncle Alex said he could stand 
and jump any fence he could put his nose over, and 
run and jump over the moon, if it had a fence around 
it.” 

One day Uncle Alex said he was going to plough 
corn with the mule ; he was plenty able to work if he 
could jump the way he did. So he put a bridle on 
him, hitched him to the fence and went into the 
stable and got the harness. When the mule saw him 
coming with it, he lifted up his ears and began to 
switch his tail. When Uncle Alex got close to him, 
he began to jump and kick, and Uncle Alex could 
not get anywhere near him, but if he would lay the 
harness down on the ground he could go up to him. 
He would drop his ears and look like he was asleep. 
Uncle Alex said, Ef dat aint de banginest mule 
18 


UNCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


eber I seed in my life, my name aint Alex White. 
What’s I gAvine ter do wid yo’ ? Yo’ knows I’s got 
ter plough cone wid yo’, or dar won’t be no cone for 
yo’ ter eat, an’ yo’ can’t pull no plough widout dem 
gears on yo’. ^^ow what yo’ gwine ter do ’bout it ? ” 
The little boy said : Uncle Alex, you see what 

he is going to do about it, but what are you going to 
do about it ? ” Uncle Alex said, Now look yere, 
honey, what’s yo’ axin’ me foolish questions fur? 
Yo’ knows Alex well ’nuf ter know what he’s gwine 
ter do. He is er gwine ter put dem gears on dat mule 
an’ plough dat cone wid him, ceptin’ he die fo’ I gits 
de gears on him; dat’s Alex, honey, an’ yo’ knows 
hit.” 

About this time Aunt Rachel came up and said, 
I dunno ’bout dat Alex, I dunno ’bout dat. When 
I seed yo’ jes’ now, dat mule wuz on de pint er kick- 
in’ yo’ brains out, an’ a mule what kin jump as high 
as dat mule is not er gwine ter have no gears on dis 
time ob day, now, yo’ mark what Rachel dun tole 
yo’.” Now look e yere, Rachel; yo’ knows I don’t 
’low no wimmen come foolin’ ’long wid my bizness; 
sides dat, yo’ is dun tuck sides wid dat mule, an’ hit 
don’t s’prise me ter heah yo’ talk dat way; but yo’ 
watch Alex, dats all I’se got ter say.” He led the 
mule up in a corner of the fence by the side of an old 
apple tree, got a long pole and put up by the side of 
him so that the mule could not get out, then he got 
19 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


up on the fence and dropped the harness down on his 
back. Of all the kicking yon ever saw done, that 
mule did it. He had the harness off on the ground 
in less time than it takes to tell it. Uncle Alex had 
to take the pole down and let the mule out, to get the 
harness. 

The little boy said, Uncle Alex, what are you 
going to do now ? Uncle Alex said, How what’s 
yo’ keep on er axin’ me dat fur? It’s ^ Uncle Alex 
Avhat’s yo’ gwine ter do noAV ? What’s yo’ gwine ter 
do now ? ’ Yo’ knows what I’s er gwine ter do now, 
an’ what I’s er gwine ter do all de time. I’s er gwine 
ter ride dat mule, jes’ what I said I wuz gwine ter 
do all de time, honey. I’s er gwine ter ride him; 
yo’ heard me say so frum de fust startin’ uv it. Hat 
mule is done bin yere fur two munts, an’ aint dun 
narry lick uv wuck yit. He may rip, an’ he may 
rare, and kick, but taint no use. I’s er gwine ter 
ride him. He’s jes bin standin’ roun’ yere, wid his 
ears flopped down, an’ he lips hung down, lettin’ on 
lek’ he is sick, an’ he aint bin sick narry minit; he 
aint, in my ’pinion, bin feelin’ bad. He’s not er 
gwine ter fool ole Alex no mo’.” 

Uncle Alex went in the stable and brought out the 
old army saddle that the Yankees had left, when 
they took away the horses. He got the mule again 
and led him up to where the saddle lay on the ground. 
Everything went all right up to this point, except 

20 


UNCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


the mule seemed to pay some attention to the saddle 
lying on the ground. But when Alex stooped 
down to pick up the saddle, by some twist of 
that lame hind foot, he managed to hit Alex 
on the seat of his pants, landing him about five feet 
away on the top of his head. When Alex picked 
liimself up, the mule was standing quietly by the 
saddle just as if nothing had happened. Language 
seemed to have deserted Alex for the time being, at 
least he did not seem able to express himself, for he 
just stood looking at the mule. It seemed to the 
little boy that Uncle Alex grew larger than he was 
before the mule kicked him. It must have been true, 
for Aunt Rachel, when she got her breath from 
laughing, said, Alex, what yo’ standin’ dar fur, 
swelled up lek a garden toad, an’ lookin’ at dat mule ? 
Is yo’ dun loss yo’ speech, or is dat mule dun tuck 
de breff outen yo’ ? I ’dare to gracious dat mule 
handle dat lame hin’ foot wid great ’gility.” 

By this time Alex’s power of utterance had 
returned and he said, Rachel, I thought yo’ did 
liab sum sense, an’ sum manners, an’ heah yo’ is 
talkin’ to me ’bout bein’ swelled up lek a garden toad 
an’ er mirin’ dat mule in de use uv he hin’ foot, an’ 
Alex mighten nigh killed. I ’dare to de Laud, 
I believe yo’ an dat mule is in cahoot, kaze I aint 
neber seed nuthin’ dun lek dat befo’.” ITo, Alex, 
bress de Laud, yo’ aint seed dat yit, kaze yo’ aint got 
21 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


no eyes behin’ yo’, but I seed it, Alex, an’ it suttenly 
is cu’ous how dat mule handle dat foot.” 

By this time the mule had walked off, and began 
cropping the grass. Uncle Alex got the saddle and 
laid it in the stable, pausing once or twice to look at 
the mule, as though trying to understand how he 
kicked him when he was not behind him. 

On the following morning the little boy said. 
Uncle Alex, I thought you were going to plough the 
old mule. Uncle Alex said, Lawd, honey, I ain’t 
studyin’ ’bout no mule.” Well, Uncle Alex, aint 
you going to ride the mule ? ” Alex replied, Aint 
I dun tole yo’, I aint studyin’ ’bout no mule.” 
“ Well, Uncle Alex, what are you studyin’ about ? ” 
I’s studyin’ ’bout dem Yankees what lef’ dat mule 
here; what in de name of de Lawd dey think we 
gwine ter do wid him, an’ what yo’ dun tuck de U. 
S. oft* en him fur ? Dat mule don’t long here, an’ de 
suner de Yankees comes an’ gits him, de better hit 
will be fur dat mule, kase I’s gwine ter kill him ; yo’ 
hear me don’ yo ? I’s er gwine ter kill him sho’. ” 
Uncle Alex, don’t kill him ; I will tell you how to 
ride him.” How kin yo’ ride him, honey ? ” 
Why get on him without the saddle. He lets you 
rub him, and put the bridle on him, and he won’t do 
anything if you get on his bare back.” Well, if 
he won’t let de saddle ride, wat yo’ think he gwine 
let Alex ride fur ? Ho, no, honey, he done fool Alex 
22 


UNCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


once, he not gwine ter fool Alex agin, not if Alex 
knows hisseK.’^ Well, Uncle Alex, I will get on 
him.’’ All right, honey, yo’ kin try hit ef yo’ wants 
to, but in ’cordance wid my ’pinion, yo’ is in danger. 
Yo’ kin b’lieve me er not b’lieve des as yo’ min’ ter, 
but dat ar long flop-yeared creetur, dat ar up en 
down, an’ sailin’ roun’, ’ceitful creetur, wat one minit 
can’t lif’ his foot over er stick er wood, an’ den lif’ 
’is whole body over dat ar stake, an’ ride fence, an’ 
neber tech a har, is dangus to fool wid. Uow yo’ is 
dun heerd all Alex got ter say. Let ’lone dat, 
aint yo’ dun seed him kick Alex, an’ Alex not er 
standin’ hin’ ’im ? A mule what kin kick yo’ an yo’ 
standin’ in front uv ’im, dar aint no pendance to be 
put in ’im, an’ dis ol’ nigger tell yo’ right now, he 
aint gwine ter have nothin’ mo’ ter to do wid ’im, 
an’ to tell yo’ de Lawd’s trufe, honey, yo’ ’ud better 
take my ’dvice an’ stay clean ’way from dat mule.” 

Well, Uncle Alex, I know he will let me rub him ; 
he don’t mind my coming close to him. I don’t think 
he will do anything, if I haven’t got the saddle.” 

All right, honey, yo’ kin try hit, but Alex aint 
er gwine ter have nuthin’ ter do wid it, an’ ef my 
eye aint ’ceive me, dat mule know yo’ is talkin’ ’bout 
’im right dis minit.” 

Well, I am going to try it anyhow, Uncle Alex.” 

Tooby sho’, honey, tooby slio’, yo’ kin try hit, but 
I ’low yo’ better be gittin’ ready to say yo’ pra’rs 
23 


SOUTIIERX PLAXTATIOX STORIES 


fust, kaze dat mule aiut gwiiie ter dow yo’ ter git on 
’im; now yo’ min’ wat I’s dun tol’ yo’.” 

But the little boy went up to the old mule, rubbed 
his ears and his nose, and patted him on the side, and 
led him up to the fence; then he climbed up on the 
fence and got on his back right easy, and the old mule 
stood as still as a stone. Alex watched the proceed- 
ings with great interest, and when he saw that the 
mule was not going to cut any capers, he said, Dis 
ole nigger’s dun bin al’ ober dis whole worl’ and clear 
down to de fur een’ er no whar, an’ dun bin chase’ 
by de patter rollers, but in all er my trabels, I aint 
seed nuthin’ like dat mule. Git domi ofen dar, 
honey, an’ let Alex on dar, an’ les’ see wat he er 
gwine ter do, wen I gits on ’im, fur yo’ dun heerd 
me say long er go, I wuz er gwine ter ride dat mule, 
cuttin’ up er no cuttin’ up. He kin rip en he kin 
rar, but I’s er gwine ter ride ’im, an’ I ’low dis is er 
mighty good time fer ter do it. Git doAvn, honey, 
an’ let Uncle Alex on dar, dat hoppity, skippity, up- 
en-down, en sailin’ roun’ aint er gwine ter do no 
good now; Alex is er gwine ter ride.” 

The little boy slid off the mule, and Alex ap- 
proached him very cautiously, walking all around 
him and looking at his liind legs especially. Finally 
he went up in front of him, put out his hand and 
touched him on the nose, then jumped back, and said. 
Wo dar, I tell yo’, I don’t want none yo’ foolisli- 
24 



Now I’s er gwine ter put dat saddle on yer. 







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UXCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


ness.’’ The mule had never moved a muscle. lie 
approached him again, put his hand on his foretop 
and said, Wo, I tell yo’ : yo’ kin look befo’ yo’, an’ 
yo’ kin look behin’ yo’, an’ yo’ kin look all ’roun yo’ 
ef yo’ wants to, hut Alex is right here, an’ he’s gwine 
ter ride yer.” 

He led the mule up to the fence just as the little 
boy had done, and with great caution settled himself 
on the mule’s back. The mule stood perfectly still. 
The little boy handed him a switch, and he Avhipped 
the mule furiously until it moved olf a feAV steps and 
began cropping the grass, just as it had done Avith 
the little boy. The old negro said, Oh yes, haint T 
tol’ yo’, it Avuz no use rarin’, an’ takin’ on so, ’bout 
hit; haint I dun tol’ yo’ Alex gwine ter ride yo’ ’fore 
he dun Avid yo’ ; an’ sides, I’s er gwine ter shoAV yo’ 
hoAv to cut up, an’ kick, an’ rar roun’, an’ jump 
fences, an’ kick Unc. Alex A\^en he eye not on yer.” 

The old man got doAvn and said, Xoav I’s er 
gwine ter put dat saddle on yer, an’ take some co’n 
ter mill. I boun’ I shoAV yo’ hoAv to tote yo’self 
’bout dis place.” He AA^ent in the stable and came 
out Avith the saddle and approached the mule Avith 
A^ery little caution, AAdien almost as quick as a flash 
the mule AAdiirled and kicked A\dth both feet at the 
old negro, fortunately striking the saddle he had in 
front of him, but knocking him heels OA^er head. It 
Avas some minutes before he Avas able to speak. Then 

25 


SOUTHEEN PLAXTATIO:^ STOKtES 


he said, Des like I dun tell yo^, honey ; dar aint no 
creetur wat kin stan’ right flat footed an wuk he min’ 
quick lek a mule. He dun ’lowed yo’ ter ride ’im, 
an’ he dun ’lowed me ter ride, des so he cud git ter 
kick me wen I cum wid de saddle, an’ now he’s dun 
busted dis saddle, till taint fitten to put on nuthin’, 
an’ how in de name ob de Lawd is I gwine ter ride 
on dat saddle now? Cum on way from dar, honey, 
an’ let dat mule ’tent hisself wid bustin’ de saddle.” 

About this time Rachel appeared in the kitchen 
door and said, Alex, cum on yer to yo’ dinner, yo’ 
triflin’ black nigger; yo’ aint cut no stove wood to- 
day. Yo’ is always er foolin’ ’bout dat stable, ’stead 
cuttin’ wood fur me ter cook wid. I ’dare fo’ de 
Lawd, I b’lieves yo’ would stay up dar wid dat boy 
an’ ole mule till de Jedgment day, ef nobody called 
yo’.” 

Uncle Alex and the little boy came slowly to the 
house. The little boy said, Aunt Rachel, the mule 
kicked Uncle Alex and broke the saddle.” Well 
I’s glad uv it, honey. Dat ol’ nigger f’ever’n’ ter- 
nary foolin’ ’roun’ dat stable an’ dat mule. Some- 
body bleege ter look atter ’im des same as de look 
atter yo’ an’ mo’ so, fur dat matter, an’ I aint er 
gwine ter do hit if de mule kill ’im. Eat yo’ dinner, 
nigger, an’ don’ set dar an’ look at me. Ef somebody 
bleeged ter watch yo’ an’ dat mule, dar neber would 
be nuthin’ dun at dis house.” 


26 


UNCLE ALEX AND THE MULE 


Alex ate his dinner in silence, for silence, he had 
learned by experience, was the best way to deal with 
Aunt Rachel. After dinner we went back to the 
stable, and saw the old mule lying down under the 
apple tree, and when we went to him, you can imag- 
ine our astonishment at finding him stone dead. Un- 
cle Alex said, Dar now, honey, dat mule dun busted 
his biler de same time he busted de saddle. Yo’ 
know widout me tellin’ yo’ dat a mule can’t fool wid 
Uncle Alex an’ not git hurt.” This was the last of 
our U. S. mule. Just what killed him we were never 
able to say. 

This old negro lived with the Wiley family forty 
years. He had helped to nurse and rear and tell 
stories to the children and grandchildren of this 
family. His last act in life was to obey an order 
of his young mistress. 

At his funeral I learned the following facts: 

Alex had been complaining only a few days. On 
the day of his death he sat in the kitchen, and Mrs. 
J arman said to him, ^ Uncle Alex, you had better go 
to your room and lie down, and I will bring you some 
gelatin.’ He went to his room, and in a very short 
time Mrs. Jarman went to the door with the gelatin, 
and found the door locked. She said, ^ Uncle Alex, 
open the door.’ He did not reply. She repeated the 
order, ^ Uncle Alex, open the door at once ! ’ He was 
sitting in a chair before the fire ; he struggled to his 
27 
f 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


feet, opened the door, went back and laid down on the 
bed, and in a moment was dead.’^ 

So passed from earth one of the most faithful men 
of his race, loved and respected by three generations 
of children, and white people. His last act was to 
obey his white mistress. Her last act concerning him 
was to minister to him in his sickness — a beautiful 
illustration of the faithful old slaves, and the love and 
respect they had for the Southern white people. 

There is no race question,^’ if one is not made by 
politicians and people who know nothing of the condi- 
tions of the colored race, and his relation to the South- 
ern white people. The race question will solve itself 
if let alone, and left to the two races that know an<l 
understand each other. 


28 


UXCLE PHIUS VISIT TO HEAVE^I 



XCLE PHIL was a unique character, and yet 
you find a similar one in almost every com- 
munity where there are many negroes. It 
would be difficult to make a pen picture of 
him, although his face and form are as clearly delin- 
eated now in my mind as on the day I last saw him ; 
and the day I heard him tell of his trip to Heaven 
happened to be that day. 

It was a singular fact — indeed, almost a coin- 
cidence — that the old negro died so shortly after tell- 
ing the marvellous story of his visit to Heaven. I 
have no recollection of ever seeing him alive after- 
wards. He was found dead in a hay loft. He had 
evidently died in peace, sleeping quietly on the new- 
mown clover hay. 

The hay loft was a favorite place for Uncle Phil 
to sleep, and he was permitted to do so at his pleasure. 
Being old, and not a very strong negro, and a favorite 
with the white folks,” he was not required to do 
much hard work. He generally looked after the 
horses, and took them to the blacksmith’s shop, 
mended the harness, fed the chickens, found the 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


turkey’s nests, set the turkey hens, and helped them 
to take care of their broods. 

He was great on killing rats, and could tell famous 
stories to the children about them, and about all sorts 
of animals, most of which were purely imaginary. 
You could hear him singing and praying at almost 
any hour, day or night, when about the stable. All 
the animals about the place knew Phil as well as the 
children knew him. 

He was a religious fanatic, and yet he had no idea 
of what real religion consisted. He was never known 
to refuse either whiskey or tobacco when offered him, 
and yet, he was never known to be drunk. His mas- 
ter would say, Phil, don’t you know it is wrong 
for a Christian to drink whiskey ? ” He would reply : 

Yes, marster, but de Bible says, ’ligion never wuz 
zined to meek our pleasures less.” According to Uncle 
Phil’s moral code, it was right to do whatever he liked 
to do. 

One evening after sun-down, when he came in for 
his supper, he leaned back in his split-bottomed chair, 
against the old locust tree that stood in the back yard, 
lit his pipe, and began to smoke and sing. 

lie had on a pair of tow linen trousers, with one 
suspender fastened to a button behind and to a 
wooden peg stuck through the trousers for a button in 
front; his cotton shirt was unbuttoned; he had on 
an old linen duster for a coat, an old black slouch 
30 


uxcLE Phil’s visit to heaven 


hat on his head, a pair of old shoes on his feet, turned 
in at the heel and his toes sticking out, and a scant, 
kinky, snow-white beard on his face. 

Aunt Rachel was the only one about the place that 
did not really love old Phil. She would say: 

I jest natully spises dat triflin’ ole nigger — he 
allers pears to be so busy, an’ he ain’t do’en nuthin’ 
on dis yer place sence he bin yere, cepin’ walk roun’ 
an’ let on leek he so much ter do he dun know wat ter 
do fust. Dat’s a ’ceitful ole nigger, an’ if Miss Lizzie 
specs me fur ter feed an’ cook fur dat ole nigger all de 
time, she is gwine ter be diserpinted, dat she is. Ef 
dey wuz ter let Rachel have her way, I boun yo’ dey 
wouldn’t have no po’ ole, triflin’, sneakin’ creatur lak 
dat ’bout yere. Yo’ cain’t have any peace er mine fer 
seein’ dat ole cripple nigger roun’ — ^leastwise, he mek 
out he cripple, an’ dar ain’t no mo’ de marter wid him 
dan dar is wid me, cep he wanter mek out to de white 
folks dat dar is. I hopes Mars John will give dat 
nigger erway to de fust nigger-trader dat comes by 
dis way.” 

It is difficult to say just how long Aunt Rachel 
would have continued this tirade, had she not been 
called in to attend to her duties in the house. It made 
very little impression, however, on Uncle Phil. But 
as the other darkies began to come in from about the 
place, and sit around talking while waiting for Aunt 
Rachel to give them supper. Uncle Andy said : 

31 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Dis yere has been a powerful hot day — hit jes 
natully biles de grease outen a nigger. Dis ebnin’ 
late, atter de sun dun drapped behine de hill, I yeard 
de birds chatterin^ up in de woods, an’ it peared ter 
me lek yo’ could niighten nigh understand wat dey 
said. I heard one say, ^ Bin ter ebbin ! bin ter ebbin ! 
bin ter ebbin ! ’ — leastwise dats wat e sound lek e 
say.” (This is a peculiar note of the wood- wren.) 

Uncle Phil, upon hearing this, straightened himself 
up in his chair and said : 

Dat wood wren ain’t de onliest one whar bin ter 
hebbin from dis place. I is dun bin dar myself.” 

When is yo’ bin dar, Unk Phil ? ” said Andy. 

Ef yo’ is dun bin dar, hits er God’s pity yo’ never 
staid dar, fur dat’s de onliest time yo’ is eber gwine 
ter git dar. How in de name er de Lawd duz it hap- 
pen yo’ dun cum back ? ” 

Well,” said Phil, I wuz out in de cone patch, 
behine de stable dis mawnin’, er ploughin’ dat roasin’ 
year patch, en I wuz prayin’ an’ er prayin’, when all 
at once I feel myself gin ter git light, an’ I kep on er 
prayin’ an’ I git lighter an’ lighter. After while I 
give er spring, an’ I riz about as high as the cone tops. 
Then I come down an’ prayed some mo’, an’ I felt 
myself gittin’ light ergin, an’ I jumped up, an’ dis 
time I riz as high as de top er de fence ; den I come 
down ergin; but I prayed some mo’, an’ I git light 
ergin; den I jumped up in de ar once mo’ an’, bless 
32 



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UNCLE Phil’s visit to heaven 


Gaud, dis time de clouds tuck me; an’ I went to 
de do’ and knock, an’ de Lawd say, ^ Who dar ? ’ And 
I say, ‘ Phillip, Lawd.’ And de Lawd say, ^ Go ’way 
from dar, Phillip; I don’t know yo’.’ Den I come 
on back down ter de cone patch, en I prays ergin ; an’ 
1 gin ter git light, an’ de fust time I jumped up de 
clouds tuck me. I go to de do’ an’ knock, an’ de Lawd 
say, ^ Who’s dar ? ’ an’ I spon’, ‘ Phillip, Lawd,’ an’ 
de Lawd said, ‘ Go roun’ ter de back do’ ; ’ an’ I goes 
round an’ knock, an’ some one say, ‘ Who dar ? ’ an’ I 
spon’, ‘ Phillip ! ’ an’ dey cum an’ open de do’ a leetle 
crack, an’ I peeped in, an’ no sich sights hab ebber fell 
on dis nigger’s eyes befo’. 

Dar they wuz, all settin’ roun’ de table eatin’ sweet 
taters, an’ watermillions, an’ pumpkin pies, an’ dey 
had coffee wid sweetnin’ in it, an’ dey wuz joyin’ 
deyselfs monstrous; an’ dar wuz one cheer dat dar 
ain’t no one settin’ in, an’ de angel what open de do’ 
say, ^ Phillip, yo’ see dat cheer wat empty ? ’ I spon’, 
^ I do.’ Den he say, ^ Dat’s yo’ seat wen yo’ comes 
ter stay; but dey ain’t no seat fer yo’ ter-day.’ 
Wid dat de cloud drapped me back in de cone patch, 
an’ yere 1 is er waitin’ fur dat empty cheer.” 

Aunt Kachel, who had come to call them to supper, 
heard the latter part of Phil’s story, and she said. 
Yes, ef yo’ waits till yo’ gits dat seat, watermillions 
will grow in de groun, an’ sweet taters on de vine, 
an’ pumpkin pies dun turn ter green simmons.” 

33 


SOUTHERN PLA^fTATIO^^ STORIES 


It was but three days after this, when the little 
boy went to the barn and climbed up in the loft that 
was nearly full of sweet, new clover hay (for it was 
haying season), and there lay Uncle Phil, apparently 
fast asleep, dressed in the old duster and tow linen 
trousers, just as he was the evening he told his story. 
The little boy pulled his coat and called to him, but 
he got no response. Then he shook him by the shoul- 
der, but still no reply. He then called to Uncle 
Andy, who was nearby, to come and wake Uncle 
Phil. Uncle Andy said, go way fum here, Honey, 
I aint got no time ter befoolin’ wid ole Phil.” The 
little boy insisted, and finally he came, and found 
poor old Phil had gone to claim the vacant chair. 


34 


UXCLE FEED AiS-D THE YELLOW elACKETS 


IT Lad been a long, hot day in July. The sun 
had literally scotched the yearth,’’ as Uncle 
Fred said. It was one of those days when 
everything looked like it wanted a drink of 
cool water. The corn blades Vere twisted, and the 
grass looked dry and parched. The cattle sought the 
shade of the trees or waded in the creeks to get relief 
from the heat. 

We were in the cornfield ploughing corn, going 
ov^er it for the last time that season — laying it by,” 
the negroes called it. Fred had done a hard day’s 
work, ploughing with an old, long-legged, blazed- 
faced sorrel horse that Mars Willum,” as the dark- 
ies called him, had ridden home one day from the 
army. 

I remember well the day he came home, and the 
day he left. He rode away on Pat,” an iron-gray 
mare of fine blood and good speed, and as game as 
a horse could be. He left the old sorrel in her place 
— his name was Sam. 

^N’ow Sam was as vexatious a horse as any 
sorrel horse could possibly be. In those day I 
thought the color of a horse had lots to do with his 
35 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


disposition, and to this day I am of the belief that 
there are more mean sorrel horses than of any other 
color. Sam had given Uncle Fred a great deal 
of trouble that day ; he seemed to take special pleasure 
in being cantankerous.^’ The truth is, if Fred had 
been a horse he would have been a sorrel himself, for 
he was a high-tempered, long-legged, raw-boned negro, 
as black as the ace of spades,” and as mean as any 
sorrel horse that ever lived — a fact which Sam (the 
horse) had very soon found out; so that between the 
negro and the horse there was a mutual hatred, as 
strong as ever existed between a cat and a dog. 

Sam had worried Uncle Fred that day all he could, 
and by evening Fred was, as usual, in his very worst 
frame of mind, and old Sam, with his long, winding 
legs and sore back, was a picture of misery; for no 
matter how much you fed him, or how well you cared 
for him, he would never get any fatter, and Fred was 
built on the same pattern: He could eat more than 
any living man, and it apparently had as little effect 
on him as corn had on Sam. 

About three o’clock on this hot July evening Fred 
had ploughed out to the end of the row, and stopped 
to shade a few moments and let Sam blow,” as he 
called it. How, there is one thing on a hot July day 
that is as busy as on any other day — Fred said busier 
— and that is yellow jackets. Fred calls them yal- 
ler jackets.” 


ZQ 



Fred was sitting on the plow handle nodding. 





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UNCLE FEED AND THE YELLOW JACKETS 


A yaller jacket ’’ is a kind of wasp, somewhat 
smaller than a honey bee, and gets its name from the 
yellow stripes around its body. They make their nest 
in the ground, and when disturbed swarm out by the 
hundreds, and woe to the one that stirs up a yaller 
jacket’s nest,” for they can sting faster and harder 
and more times to the minute than any other insect 
in the world. 

While Sam was blowing and Fred was sitting on 
the plough handle, with the plough lines around his 
wrist, nodding, it occurred to the little boy to devise a 
plan to wake Fred up suddenly and surely. 

He had a large, shaggy Newfoundland dog that fol- 
lowed him everywhere he went, and would do almost 
anything he wanted her to do. She would carry a 
package or go after a ball, stick, or other object 
thrown to any distance, and bring it back to you. 
Hard by, under the root of an old stump, was a big 
nest of yellow jackets. The little boy knew that if he 
threw a stick near the nest the yellow jackets would 
swarm out, and that when the dog went to fetch the 
stick they would swarm about her and follow her as 
she returned with the stick. He knew also that her 
coat was so shaggy that the yellow jackets could not 
sting her, but that, when she got as far as old Sam, 
and Fred nodding between the plough handles, they 
would try something on which their stingers would be 
more effective. 


37 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


So the little boy called Juno, and threw his 
stick close to the nest of yellow jackets, and out 
they came by the hundreds, and when Juno ran up 
and got the stick the yellow jackets began swarm- 
ing about her, and followed her as she ran back to the 
plough. When Juno got to the plough, the little boy 
being by this time a safe distance away, the yellow 
jackets at once turned their attention from Juno to 
Sam and Fred. Sam gave one plunge and took 
Fred backwards over the plough handles, dragging 
him and the plough through the cornfield, the dust 
and dirt dying like a small whirlwind. It was but 
a very short distance to the woods on that side of 
the cornfield, and Sam made for the bushes, taking 
the plough and Fred with him. There was a brush 
pile ’’ at the edge of the woods, and just there the 
plough lines broke, freeing Fred, and landing him 
about the middle of the brush heap, while Sam went 
on to the interior of the woods, leaving the plough 
hung to a sapling. 

The joke had assumed a more serious turn than 
had been anticipated, and the little boy was terribly 
frightened at first, when he saw Sam taking Uncle 
Fred with him to the woods ; he had not noticed that 
he had the plough lines around his wrist. However, 
no one knew what made Sam run away, except the 
little boy and Juno, and Juno could not talk; more- 
38 


UNCLE FRED AND THE YELLOW JACKETS 


over, even if she had had the gift of speech she would 
have kept the little boy’s secret. 

Fortunately, Uncle Fred was not hurt; and when 
the little boy got to him, which he did as quickly as 
possible, the picture which Uncle Fred presented in 
the middle of the brush pile was one never to be 
effaced from his memory. Fred had not even made 
an effort to extricate himself. There he sat, his shirt 
and trousers hanging in shreds about him, and, 
strange to say, somehow the old, greasy slouch hat, 
that had some time in its history been been white, still 
stuck to his head with the brim flopped down. He was 
covered with dust from head to foot, and one old shoe 
gone. Of course, he had on no socks, for none of the 
negToes Avore socks in the summer. The perspiration 
Avas j^ouring doAvn his face, and had made paths 
through the dust on his cheeks. Uncle Fred, as 
already stated, Avas a tall, slim negro, Avith high 
cheek-bones, rather small eyes, and the only person, 
except one, that I eA^er saw, the Avhite of Avhose eyes 
shoAved all the way around. He had a fine set of 
teeth as Avhite as pearls and his skin as black as 
ebony, and the only real black negro I have ever 
seen Avith thin lips. 

There he sat, too full for utterance. When the 
little boy got to him he said, Uncle Fred, are you 
liurt ? ” It was some moments before he replied. 
Then he rolled his little black eyes and said : 

39 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Is jo’ hurt ? is yo’ hurt ? Dat’s er putty ques- 
tion fer ter be axin’, when yo’ done seed dat d 

ole sor’l Yankee boss, whar Mars Willum done fetch 
year, done drug me wid dem plough lines clean up in 
dis woods, an’ lef’ me er settin’ in de middle of dis 
year bresh heap, an’ yo’ kin go to de house an’ tell 
Rachel dis is de Lawd’s trufe. Dat I is done dead an’ 
berried in dis year bresh pile, an’ dat ole Yankee 
boss what Mars Willum done fetch year is de very 
man what done hit. An’ wen I gits outen yer, I’s 
er gwine meek dat boss wush he ain’t neher seed no 
bresh pile. He done stood dar twell he think Fred 
wuz er sleep, an’ den up and tuck and run off. I’ll 
let ’em know Fred’s not ersleep eve’r time ’e got ’es 
eyes shot, yo’ year.” 

With this Uncle Fred proceeded to crawl out of the 
brush heap. 

The little hoy did not dare to tell Uncle Fred for a 
year afterwards what made “ Ole Sam ” run away. 


40 


■■ 


THE COKH SHUCKING 


IT was not uncommon in the days gone by for 
the farmers in the community to have what 
they called a corn shucking in the Fall of 
the year. After the corn was ripe and ready 
for shucking (husking) it was pulled from the stalks 
with the shucks (husks) on, and loaded into wagons 
and hauled to a place convenient to the barn or corn 
cribs, and piled into two piles aimed to be of equal 
size. Word was then sent to all the neighbors round 
about, that there would be a corn shucking at this 
place on a certain night. Of course, these corn shuck- 
ings always came olf during the light of the moon. 

Moonlight nights in the South, especially during 
the Fall of the year, are beautiful almost beyond 
description. In fact, I have never seen a description 
of a typical moonlight night during the month of 
October that even approached an adequate portrayal 
of its real beauty. Indeed, it cannot be delineated 
by a pen picture, neither can it be represented by a 
real picture. There is something about the soft 
beauty of the Southern moonlight, the pure freshness 
of the air, and the lights and shadows of the trees, 
hills, and mountains, that no combination of colors 
41 



SOUTHERN PLAYSTATION STORIES 


spread by the most skilful artist can reproduce. It 
is of matchless beauty and loveliness. 

The object of a corn-shucking is that the owner of 
the corn may get it all shucked out in a single night 
by the aid of his neighbors’ hands, and he is therefore 
expected, as a remuneration for their services, to 
make it a festive occasion. After the shucking is over a 
big supper is served, and a prize given to the captain 
of the gang who gets his pile of corn shucked first. 
Before the shucking begins, and while the crowd is 
assembling, those who come early spend the time sit- 
ting around telling jokes and walking about sizing 
up the two piles of corn. After they have all assem- 
bled, two are chosen from the crowd for captains. 
After this is done, the captains choose their men. 
The first choice is decided by one captain spitting 
on a chip and throwing it up in the air, and saying 
to the other captain, Wet or dry ? ” If the side 
named by the latter is up he gets first choice; if 
otherwise, his opponent has first choice. After the 
sides are chosen they again toss the chip for choice 
of corn piles. This all being arranged, each captain 
makes his speech, after which the work begins. It 
was looked upon as a great honor among the negroes 
at that time to be selected captain ” at a corn shuck- 
ing. There would be as much wire-pulling for this 
honor as there is among the politicians of to-day for 
the nomination to Congress. They showed great skill 
42 


THE CORN SHUCKING 


ill this, too, and often more honesty than the latter- 
day politician. 

On this particular occasion Uncle Andy Campbell 
(named after General Campbell, of Kings Mountain 
fame) was chosen captain of the one crowd, and Lace 
Fullen of the other. Both of these negroes were as 
“ black as the ace of spades,’’ but as entirely different 
in appearance as in mental qualities. They were 
both unique characters and highly respected by the 
‘‘ white folks,” as well as by the negroes. In negro 
quarters ” Uncle Andy was authority, and Lace Ful- 
len de law and Gospel.” Andy was a tall, slender 
man of quick movement, active as a cat, and it was 
considered a great feat to throw Andy in a wrestling 
match. Lace was of the opposite build. He was 
short, heavy set, slow of motion, and the negroes said. 

The only difference ’tween Unk’ Lace an a boss 
wuz, dat de boss want quite ez strong ez Lace.” 

A great many of the white people were in attend- 
ance on these occasions to enjoy the songs and dances. 
They always had a place fixed for dancing, either on 
boards, or a flat, smooth place on the ground; and 
old Joe, the famous banjo picker,” was always 
present. 

I wish I could accurately reproduce the speeches of 
these two men as I heard them that night, but my 
memory is somewhat at fault. It is, by the way, 
rather remarkable that although it has been many 
43 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


years since these corn shuckings were in vogue, there 
has never appeared in print, as far as I know, any 
attempt to reproduce one of these speeches. 

Uncle Andy won on both tosses of the chip, and 
he was considered to be in great luck at the outset. 
Aunt Kachel said, Dat nigger allers wuz lucky 
frum de day he wuz horned. He ain’t neber seed no 
hard times yit, even wen the Yankees wuz yer; he 
staid right whar he is now, and tain’t nobuddy bod- 
der ’im.” Uncle Andy said, He wouldn’t give de 
en’ er Mars Sam’s big toe fer all de Yankees in de 
wurl.” At this point Aunt Rachel’s speech was cut 
short by Andy saying : 

Go ter de house, Rachel, and tend ter gittin’ dat 
supper, kaze dese niggers will be dar fur it fo’ yo’ 
has time to roas’ dem sweet taters, an’ bake dem 
pumpkin pies — mor’n dat, I’s got sumpin myself to 
say to dese niggers. How yo’ fling yo’ eye over dis 
cone pile, and fling yo’ eye on dat yuther cone pile, 
an’ den fling yo’ eye on dat yuther crowd er niggers, 
an’ yo’ see wat yo’ got ter do. Yo’ sees dat I dun 
tuck de biggest pile er cone an’ I dun choose de weak- 
liest crowd er men. I do dat kaze I knows Lace is 
gwine ter say, I dun tuck de littlest pile er cone an’ 
de biggest men, an’ fur dat reason we don beat ’em ; 
kaze yo’ know Lace en his crowd done beat now. 
Didn’t I say sumpin’ den ? ” Yes, yo’ sed sumpin’ ” 
(from the crowd). Tooby, sho’ I sed sumpin, an’ 

44 


THE CORN SHUCKING 


Lace knows hit. Lace knows a mud turkle can^t 
ketch a rabbit, any mor’n he kin ketch Andy. Wen 
yo’ pick up a yere er cone, I want yer to do hit dis 
way ” (here Andy took an ear of corn and ran it 
through his hand, and it was husked as quickly as if 
done by machinery). See, dat’s de way ter shuck 
cone ! Now, I ain’t got no mo’ ter say. Yo’ know de 
lick wat its done by, an’ I’s done show dem de lick, 
an’ wen we is done beat ’em, tain’t no use ter say 
^ Andy is done cheated.’ De nigger whar say dat is a 
liar, an’ de truf ain’t in ’im. An’ if it wuz, wat yer 
gwine ter do ’bout it? I can fling any nigger down 
wat dars ter try me, atter dis yere shuckin’ is ober 
— an ’ef yo’s got anything ter say, now’s the time ter 
say it. De cone breads er bakin’, the sweet taters 
roasin’, de ole hams er hi] in’, de chickens er stewin’, 
de coffee is er steamin’ in de pot, an’ dat ole ^ Apple 
eTack ’ wat Mars Sam is got, is jes natully bustin’ the 
cork.” 

Shet yo’ mouf ! ” (from the crowd). 

Yes, honey, shet yo’ mouf on some er dat pumkin 
pie, wen dis yer cone is shucked — dat’s de time ter 
shet yo’ mouf, an ’open yo’ mouf, too.” 

I’s gittin’ hungry now! ” (from the crowd). 

A hungry nigger is wuth two niggers wid dey 
bellies full.” 

It is difficult to tell how long this talk would have 
gone on had not Lace interrupted it by saying : 

45 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


“ Hit jes meek a man liungTj to look at dat long 
slick, black po’ nigger, let er lone yearin’ ’im stand 
dar en talk ’bout dem ar things ter eat. I jes’ ain’t 
er gwine ter stand it no longer ; it’s time dis shuckin’ 
dun begin ; an’ fur dat matter, it’s time it wuz dun. 
But Andy said he tuck de littlest pile er cone an’ de 
weakliest men, kaze he don’t want Lace ter say dar 
wuz cheatin’. Dat nigger ez jis’ wat he looks lack — 
a black snake. He blacker an’ slicker dan er snake ; 
an’ he dun try to ’ceive yo’ niggers by sayin’ he tuck 
de littlest pile er cone an’ de weakliest men, wen he 
dun got de pick er bofe. But dat ain’t no ’count; 
Lace ain’t gon’ no whar yit;, mor’n dat, Andy dun 
’pared hisself ter er rabbit, an’ me ter er mud turkle. 
He dun fergit how de turkle dun wun de race frum 
de rabbit; but Lace’ll call hit ter his membrance 
befo’ he dun wid dis yere cone shuckin’.” 

“ Dat’s hit! ” (from the crowd). 

‘‘ Tooby sho’ dat’s hit, an’ Lace gwine ter show 
yo’ dat’s hit ; er furdermo’, Andy dun said he kin 
ding any nigger downs wats at dis shuckin’. Andy 
kin ding some niggers, dat’s de trufe; but yere’s er 
nigger back whar Andy can’t touch de groun’ wid. 
Yo ’seed Andy shuck dat year cone jes’ dis way ” 
(liere Lace picked up an ear of corn and shucked it 
just as Andy had done) an’ he think nobody kin 
do dat but ’im. But I boun’, wen dat ar pile er cone 
is dun, dis yere one dun bin dun er half hour, an’ our 

46 


THE CORN SHUCKIjS^G 


ban’s and face dun wash fer supper; an’ dat xVpple 
Jack dun bus’ outen de bottle fo’ be gits dar; an’ 
xVunt Racbel’s sweet taters half col’ ; an’ de coffee- 
pot bile over; an’ de pumkin pie gown down de red 
lane; an’ ol’ Drum dun got de bam bone an’ gone 
wid it.” 

By this time tbe negroes were worked up to tbe 
bigbest tension. 

Tbe sbucking began at nine o’clock; by twelve 
Uncle Lace’s ” men raised a sbout ; they bad tossed 
tbe last ear in; not a nubbin was left. This was a 
great back-set to Uncle Andy, especially since be bad 
tbe choice of tbe corn piles and tbe first pick of tbe 
men. Andy was not a negro to be easily defeated 
at a corn sbucking, and it was not quite understood 
wby, with fortune favoring bim. Lace should have 
been the victor, for it was full thirty minutes before 
Andy’s pile was finished. It was not difficult to see 
that Andy felt his defeat very keenly, and Lace was 
by no means modest enough not to gloat over bis vic- 
tory. He said: 

I dun tole yo’ fo’ yo’ begin, I be dun half hour 
fo ’yo’ ; en dar yo’ is er shuckin’ er way, same ez ef 
yo’ des commenced. Yo’ wasin’ yo’ time er foolin’ 
wid Lace en bis men. De next time yo’ needn’t be 
so peart ’bout say in’, ^ Dis is de way to shuck cone.’ 
We don slio’ yo’ de way, en we kin sbo’ de way to 
do yutlier tilings sides dat. Yo’ dun said yo’ kin fling 

47 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


any nigger down whar is at dis shuckin’. I’s er nig- 
ger whar yo’ can’t fling; an’ mo’n dat, ain’t nary 
yuther nigger yere whar kin do it.” 

This w^as more than Andy could stand, for he was 
already smarting under defeat ; but he took no risks, 
for he was very shrewd, and knew well enough that, 
if Lace once got him in his grasp he could not resist 
his great strength ; whereas, Andy’s forte was in his 
activity and skill as a wrestler. He never intended 
to give Lace a chance to get his arms around him. 
So he said : 

Tooby sho’, yo’ dun beat us er shuckin’ ; tooby 
sho’ yo’ is, kaze three er my bes’ men dun cut der 
fingers no sooner den dey begin shuckin’, en yo’ nig- 
gers dun put pounded glass in de cone ; kaze I dun 
foun’ de glass whar wuz in dar, an’ if I know de nig- 
ger wha put it en dar, Andy kin whoop ’im, en dar 
ain’t no pounded glass whar kin help ’im. Yo’ kin 
talk mighty proud, an’ yo’ kin talk mighty loud, but 
dat’s all yo’ kin do. Ef yo’ wants ter fling Andy, 
why don’t yo’ dres yo’self to dat pint.” 

At this Lace made a rush like a mad bull for Andy, 
but he was expecting this, and had been doing every- 
thing he could to provoke Lace to make the attack. 
So as quick as a flash he dropped to the ground and 
met Lace’s rush by catching him just about the knees, 
throwing him as clear over his head as if he had been 
but a ten-year-old boy, and landing in the middle of 
48 


THE CORN SHUCKING 


the pile of corn shucks, amid the shouts and laughter 
of the crowd. 

Go it, Unc’ Andy! We knowed Lace ain’t er 
gwine ter do nothin’ wid yo’.” 

No, chillen, he ain’t er gwine ter do nuthin’ wid 
me. I des ’lowed dem ter shuck de cone fust to keep 
der diserpintment from bein’ too ’stressin’. I dun 
berried dat nigger in dem cone shucks, ter look fur 
de glass dey put in dar.” 

By this time Lace had crawled out and was making 
his preparations for another rush, but this time with 
more caution ; for two falls out of three ” lost the 
wrestling match. Lace said, Yo is er feared ter try 
me wid fair holts.” 

Andy replied, Wat yo’ call fair holts? Does yo’ 
think I’s gwine ter come up en lay down in yo’ arms ? 
Dat’s lek de frog in de huckleberry patch — des let 
de black snake swaller ’em fo’ ’e does his kickin’ ; den 
wen ’e kick, dey ain’t no groun’ under ’e foot, en ’e 
keint git no foot-hol’, so dar ’e is; but I gwine ter 
do my kickin’ fust.” 

Tooby sho’ yo’ is ; tooby sho’ yo’ is,” said Lace ; 

but ef I gits my paw on yo’, yo’ do yo’ las’ kickin’ 
fus’, kaze at de las’ yo’ won’t have no breff to kick 
wid.” 

With this Lace made a second rush for Andy, but 
Andy dodged, and before he could turn caught him 
by the foot, and threw him flat on his back on the 
49 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


smooth, hard ground which they had prepared for the 
dancing. The fall was a clear one and a hard one. 
So Andy was the winner, and his crowd raised a wild 
yell, for they knew there was not another nigger ’’ 
at the shuckin^ that could have dusted Lace’s back. 
Andy said, De black bar done cum er long en set ’e 
foot in Andy’s trap, an’ dar ’e is.” 

With this, old Joe began to pick the banjo and the 
dancing immediately began. A dance at a corn 
shucking cannot be reproduced on paper, nor can it 
be described ; it belongs to the past, and can only be 
enjoyed as a memory by the Southern white people 
and others who may have chanced to witness it. 

At about this juncture Aunt Rachel, with her red 
handkerchief on her head, appeared on the scene and 
said, Wat yo’ niggers er doin’ out yere keepin’ me 
er waitin’ dat supper ? Andy dun let Lace beat ’im 
shuckin’ cone; and Lace dun ’lowed dat little slick 
black nigger to mighten nigh des natully bus’ de 
groun’ open wid ’im; an’ yer de coffee, an’ de hot 
biskits, an’ de fried chicken, and de sweet taters 
Shet yo’ mouf ! ” from the crowd) is er all gittin’ 
col’ ; an’ moe’n dat, I’s got dem dishes ter wash 
atter yo’ niggers is dun had yo’ supper ; en ’sides dat 
Marse Sam dun moved de stopper from de jug.” 

1^0 further invitation was needed. There was but 
one thing a negro loved better at a corn shucking than 
dancing, and that was eating; so without further 
50 


THE CORN SHUCKING 


urging on Aunt RacheFs part they went to the 
kitchen and enjoyed eating and drinking as only 
negroes could. 

What would many a millionaire give for the health 
and digestion of one of those plantation negroes ? 
And yet, we are told in such books as Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin/’ and by other writers of that type, who knew 
almost nothing of slave life in the South, of the 
dreary, hopeless life they led, knowing nothing but 
the hardest work, driven by the master’s lash, without 
one ray of sunshine or pleasure. I honestly believe 
as a race, slaves on the Southern plantations were 
the happiest, best-contented people the sun ever shone 
on. 


51 



THE SNAKE CHAEMEK 


T was on the 21st of July, 18 — , as hot a day 
as I have ever known. The sun had reached 
its zenith and seemed to stand still. The 
whole world seemed still ; not a twig or leaf 
was moving. The grain fields looked like seas of 
gold, with not a ripple on the surface. There was not 
an animal in sight on the old plantation; they had 
all sought the shade of the wood; the birds had dis- 
appeared to some shady spot; the insects had ceased 
their hum, except the jar-flies’ discordant note from 
a nearby tree, and now and then the droning of a 
drowsy beetle. 

It was one of those copper days,” when the shim- 
mer of the heat had a peculiar sort of metallic lustre, 
and when the least exertion brought exhaustion. 

I had stretched myself on the ground in the shade 
of a spreading oak, to wait for the world to waken up, 
and had fallen asleep. Suddenly I was startled by 
the most unearthly scream I’d ever heard. I sprang 
from the ground at a bound, with my heart beating 
like a drum. I looked hastily about me, but saw no 
one; everything seemed as quiet and peaceful as 
before. I sat dovui and tried to think whether I had 



53 


SOUTIIEliX PLAXTATIOX STORIES 


been dreaming, or whether I had really heard a ter- 
rific scream. Again I looked in every direction, but 
there was no one in sight. I sat down again, and was 
saying aloud to myself, ^^That certainly was strange,” 
when a wild laugh came from the tree over my head 
and startled me again. I looked up and saw, sitting 
among the branches of the tree, a most remarkable 
and singular person, known in the community as 
E’ipper, the snake charmer.” I knew ^^"ipper to be 
a harmless fellow, but he had certainly given me a 
fright. I told him to come down, which he did as 
quickly as a cat, and seated himself on the ground in 
front of me. The first thing he said was, Give me 
a chaw er terbacker.” I complied with his request. 

Mpper was a small man, his skin about the color 
of smoked bacon. He had one of those smooth, sal- 
low skins, on which beard does not grow. His eyes 
were bright blue, his hair light and thin, his chin 
small, and lips rather thick. He had neither eye- 
brows nor lashes ; had a deep, smooth, pleasant voice, 
but spoke with a drawl, and was an incessant talker. 
He had on a blue cotton shirt, fastened with one but- 
ton at the collar ; and a pair of trousers that had once 
been light in color. These were held up by one leather 
suspender. His feet were without shoes. Altogether 
he was not a very attractive specimen to be called a 
charmer,” and yet there was that about his voice 
that was very attractive and pleasant. After seeing 
54 



“ A wild laugh came from the tree over my head. ’ 





THE SNAKE CHAEMEE 


him it was always hard to realize that such a voice 
belonged to Nipper. 

On account of his eccentric ways, and the fact that 
he generally had a snake concealed about his person, 
most people avoided him. The negroes had an abso- 
lute dread of him. They believed he was in league 
Avith Satan, and that he had the power to put ^^squaw- 
pins ’’ (scorpions) in you. All animals were fond of 
him, and he had great control over them. I said : 

Nipper, what were you doing up in that tree? 
You nearly scared me out of my wits. Why did you 
scream that way ? ’’ 

Wal, now ter tell the truf, I been er bout this 
tree fer mighty nigh two days, er tryin’ ter ketch er 
snake wat stays about yer. Hit air the only snake 
ever I seed that I couldn’t ketch ; en when you cum 
and laid down thar he run olf, en if it hadn’t been 
fer you I would er kotch him, en when I seed you 
wuz asleep, I jist up en hollered ter skeer yer, an’ by 
Gosh ! I cum putty nigh doin’ it.” 

I asked him what sort of a snake it was. 

It wur a black snake. There air some bird nest 
in this yer tree, en he cums yer to git the eggs, en I 
’lowed if I got up in the tree fust I could nab him 
wen he cum up.” 

I asked, What were you going to do with him if 
you had got him ? ” 

I wuz goin’ ter take him home ter ketch rats. 

55 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Black snakes is powerful fond er rats, and one black 
snake kin ketch more rats in er day than two cats 
kin ketch in er week/’ 

Well, ain’t you afraid of snakes about the 
house ? ” I asked. 

Lawd, no ; I ain’t no more feared uv snakes than 
I am uv a rat.” 

Don’t they ever bite you ? ” 

I’ve been bit nineteen times ; but I don’t mind 
ther bites; hit don’t hurt much nohow. I kin cure 
snake bites. But one bit me tother day that hurt me 
wuss than any one yit. I hed er big rattlesnake in 
er box at the house, en one er my boys had been 
whoopin’ it with switches to make it mad. When I 
cum in, I tuck it outen the box ter play with. I 
didn’t know the boys had been er whoopin’ it, en when 
I hed hit up close to my face I looked away fer sum- 
pin, en hit popped me right between the eyes. Don’t 
you see them little red spots ther now? I foun’ out 
one thing : if anybody is bin pesterin’ er rattlesnake, 
en specially er whoopin’ it with switches, they is 
mighty apt ter bite yer, ef yer don’t handle em power- 
ful keerful. Snakes will bite yer anyhow ef yer ain’t 
keerful, kaze I hed er man the yuther day er helpin’ 
me deer off some new ground, en ther wuz er lot uv 
bresh on the place. The man wuz mighty keerless 
’bout ther way he handled ther bresh. So I said, 

^ Look yere, er copperhead will bite you terectly ef 
56 


THE SNAKE CIIARMEE 


yo’ ain’t more keerfuL’ And he said, ^ E^ipper, I 
ain’t feared no snakes. I’m in ther hands er ther 
Lord, en ther Lord won’t suffer er snake ter bite me. 
I am er member uv ther church, I serve ther Lord, 
en He won’t ’low no snake ter bite me.’ I said, 
^ Look yere, I hev bin er foilin’ with snakes fer er 
long time, and ther is one thing sho’, ther Lord don’t 
extend His business, ez fer ez copperhead snakes.’ En 
hit wasn’t ten minutes till ther biggest kin’ er one 
hung him in ther back er ther hand, en I swar yer 
could er heard ’im holler er mile. I said, ^ Look er 
yer, hev you en ther Lord done zolved partnership er 
ready ? I tole yer there Lord didn’t extend His busi- 
ness ez fer ez copperheads.’ En if I hadn’t put some 
er my snake medicine on ther bite hit would er 
mighty nigh kilt him.” 

About this time there was a little motion about the 
front of Hipper’s shirt, and a big black snake poked 
his head out, and licked out his tongue in a threaten- 
ing way. I did not need any invitation to change my 
seat. 

Hipper, there is a big snake in your shirt,” I 

said. 

Wal, yer know, I carries that one ter hunt squir- 
rels with when I go er huntin’, and if ther squirrels 
go in er hole, this yer snake will run em out. I kin 
kill more squirrels in er day than any yuther man in 
these mountains. Jes take ’im in yer ban’s an’ let 
57 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


^im run down yer shirt collar, an’ see how slick ’e 
is.” 

With this he started towards me. 

Sit down, ^Nipper ; don’t come any nearer. I 
don’t like snakes as well as you do.” 

He grinned a broad grin, took his seat, and the 
snake disappeared in his shirt. 

This eccentric man had gotten the name of snake 
charmer,” not only because he caught and handled 
snakes, but because, for some strange reason, snakes, 
as well as all other animals, loved him. He could go 
and sit down alone, and b}- some peculiar sound could 
call snakes from their hiding places, and you could 
see them stick their heads up out of the grass near 
him. He disclaimed knowing any reason for his 
power over snakes, other than that he was not 

afeared uv ’em, en they knew it.” 

The one other singular thing about him was the 
marvellous softness and sweetness and attractiveness 
of his voice. You could listen to him talk for hours 
and not feel tired. There was something soothing in 
the sound of his voice. The negroes said it was the 
Devil. 

While we Avere engaged in this conversation, TJncle 
Andy and the Little Boy came up. The Little Boy 
knew Hipper and liked him, but Andy had a great 
aversion to him, and said, Come er long, honey ; we 
ain’t got no time ter be foolin’ long with Marse Sam, 
58 


THE S]N"AKE CHARMER 


en mo’ en dat, Miss Lizzie done said fer ns ter hurry 
back.” 

But Uncle Andy, I want to hear Uipper talk a 
while and tell me about the way he catches snakes.” 

louver min’ about Mr. I^ipper’s snakes. I spec’ 
he done got some in he’ pocket now, an’ de fus’ thing 
you know he done bite yo’. Dat’s a dangous white 
pusson ter spen’ yo’ time wid, honey. Dar ain’t no- 
body whar kin tote snakes in der pocket but what is 
dangous.” 

About this time the black snake stuck his head out 
of Nipper’s shirt again. Uncle Andy said, Uo’ 
God, honey, I ain’t er gwine ter stay narry nuther 
minit. Don’t yo’ see dat snake ? ” And he seized 
the Little Boy by the hand and started off in a trot, 
saying, Yo’ kin charm snakes if yer want ter, but 
yer not er gwine ter charm Andy with yer sof’ voice 
and yer ragged close. Yo’ ain’t nuthin’ but de Debil 
nohow, en Mars Sam is er foolin’ his time er way 
talkin’ wid yo’.” 

The Little Boy said, Uncle Andy, do you really 
think Nipper would hurt anybody ? ” 

Not ef yo’ is er watchin’ ’im ; but ’e kin put er 
spell on yer, en nobody kin mobe hit but Witch Mary, 
en she done daid en gone. En Nipper gwine ter jine 
her some er dese days, kaze dey is one en de same sort 
er pussons. En whar one goes wen dey dies, de 
yuther gwine ter go, too; and I dunno wat kin’ er 
59 


SOUTHEEN PLANTATION STORIES 


place it gwine ter be, nuther. I wish I^ipper was dar 
right now wid his snakes!’’ 

But, Uncle Andy, Witch !Mary went to Heaven, 
because she told us she was going ; and that the chil- 
dren would bring flowers and put them over her body 
when she died, and everybody says they did.” 

Yes, honey, but nobody knows whar dem flowers 
cum frum ; en ’sides date, some folks say dem flowers 
was scotched — leastways, dey say dey smell like dey 
wuz scotched. Yo’ kin put no ’pendence on whar 
Mary is, or whar Nipper is gwine. But one thing 
sho’, he ain’t er gwine ter cum close to Andy. I ain’t 
neber struck no white man yit, but ef Nipper wuz ter 
git me in a close place, en ’proach me wid dem snakes, 
I would be ’bleeged ter let ’im feel de weight er dis 
yere black paw ! ” 

Nipper is still living; but Uncle Andy has long 
since passed away, and, strange to say, he died from 
the effects of a snake bite. 


60 


HOW THE LITTLE BOY GOT EKIGHTEHED 
AT THE CAHDLE MOULDS 


IT was a cold, dark night ; the wind was blowing 
a fierce gale, the sleet was rattling against 
the window-panes, and the shutters were 
creaking on their hinges. The children were 
around a big, blazing wood fire in an old-fashioned 
fire-place, roasting Irish potatoes in the ashes, and 
popping corn. Mother was sitting in the corner mak- 
ing a cap for one of the hoys, and Aunt Rachel was 
sitting in the other corner knitting. 

One of the children said, Aunt Rachel, tell us 
a tale.’’ 

x\unt Rachel had a red bandanna handkerchief tied 
around her head, and a red striped linsy dress on, 
and was the picture of an old-time black mammy. I 
can see her in my mind’s eye as clearly as if she stood 
before me this minute ; her delight was to tell stories 
to the children after candle light. During the war 
we always burned candles, which were moulded out of 
beef -tallow. The moulds when not in use stood on a 
shelf in the store-room. We had just asked Aunt 
Rachel to tell us a tale, and, although she was very 
fond of telling us stories, she was never known in all 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


her life to begin one on such occasions except under 
protest. 

yo’ chillens knows I’s not er gwine to tell 
no tale ter night; so yo’ just as well let ole Rachel 
’lone. Mo’ne dat, even if I wuz gwine ter tell yo’ a 
tale, I done know no tale ter tell; so yo’ mout jis as 
well roas’ dem taters and pop dat co’n and let Rachel 
’lone kaze she not er gwine ter tell no tale dis night.” 

JSTow this was the signal that Rachel would in a 
very few moments be spinning us a yarn, and we 
were respectfully quiet, and went on with our corn 
popping, as sure that the tale would be forthcoming 
as that we were alive. After awhile Aunt Rachel 
sorter ” straightened herself up and said : 

I do declar, I’s gittin’ so no-’count I can’t see to 
knit by dese candles. I draps a stitch eber minit 
might’n nigh, and can’t no mo’ pick it up en er owl 
kin see in de day time. Is eber I done tole yo’ chillen 
bout dat owl I seed once wat could talk ? ” 

Ho, Aunt Rachel; tell us about it.” 

Well, hits a curious thing ’bout dat owl. I dun 
mos’ fegit how hit wuz myself, but I know one thing : 
dat owl could talk mos’ es good es yo’ kin ; and mo’en 
dat, he knowed wat he talken ’bout. I was er gwine 
’long out yander one day todes dem woods whar dat 
man was berried de fus year er de war, wat dey say 
done died wid de yaller janders, and de fus thing I 
knowed I yerd some one say, ^ Who-whoo : who-whoo : 

62 


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“ ' Who dat say who-whoo ?’ ” 


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HOW THE LITTLE BOY GOT FRIGHTENED 


who air yer — who-whoo, who-whoo — who air yer ? ’ 
An’ I tuck and stop, I did, an’ lissen, en I nebber yerd 
nothin’ more ; and den I move ’long agin, sorter slow, 
kaze I don’ leek de soun’ ob dat voice, kaze I yerd 
sum folks say dat de man wbar died wid de yaller 
janders bed bin seed f o’ now, walkin’ ’bout dem 
woods, an’ I ’lowed hit mout be ’im, axen ^ Who air 
yer ? ’ en ef hit wuz, I tell yo’ now, chillens. Aunt 
Rachel ain’t got much time ter talk wid live folks, 
en got no time ’tal ter talk wid ded uns. An’ mo’en 
dat, sum people says yaller janders is ketchin. So I 
jis start out putty peart fur de house, when sumpin 
said again, ^ Who-whoo : who air yer ? ’ an’ so I 
’lowed it wuz time fur Rachel to ’spond when any- 
body ax who air yer. So I up en’ said, ^ My name’s 
Rachel, en’ I don keer ef hit is, en t’aint nun of 
yo’ hizness ef hits Rachel or not. I’s er gwine er 
long yere er tending to my hizness, en’ I aint got no 
time ter be foolin’ long wid yo’.’ So wid dat I up 
and start home agin, en den sumpin’ say, ^ Who air 
yer,’ agin. Dis time hit soun’ lek hit wuz rite in de 
trees ’hove my hed, an’ wen I looks up dar, wat does 
I see but one dese great big whoppin’ owls, wid 
his eyes as big as de yaller of a egg, and shinin’ jist 
zactly lek a glass marvel. Den I knowed hit was 
dis owl wat wuz er hollerin’ at me, en I up en lowed 
yo’ had better git out dat tree, kaze we aint got no 
chicken fur yo’ bout dis place. An’ wid dat he turn 
63 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


he bed clean roun’ over he shoulder and look at me, 
so straight, I clar to goodness, chillen, I feel sorter 
cu’ious, en dem eyes look so big en yaller dat I lit 
out and come home sailin’/’ 

About this stage of the story, mother said, Son, 
go out to the -kitchen and tell Uncle Andy to bring 
some wood in for the fire.” The little boy started 
out, and opened the door that went through the hall 
to the kitchen. The plastering was off the wall in 
one place, and the light from the blazing fire shone 
through the laths on the candle moulds, so that the 
reflection from the tin made them shine very bright, 
and to his youthful imagination, after hearing Aunt 
Rachel’s owl story, made the candle moulds look 
like the great big owl eyes. He stood for one moment, 
and then rushed back into the room with one wild 
scream, “ shiney eyes looking at me ! ! ” Everybody 
rushed to the hall to see, and there were the candle- 
moulds standing in the store room and shining 
through the cracks in the wall, which he had taken for 
Shiney eyes.” When the commotion was settled. 
Aunt Rachel said, well, I declar to de Laud, I is 
not er gwine ter tell yo’ chillen no mo’ tales uv 
nights ; dis yer chile dun skeered me out’en my 
senses holler’n ’bout shiney eyes lookin’ at ’im.” 


now THE LITTLE BOYS BKOKE UP A 
KEVIVAL 



HILE sitting here looking out of my 
window and watching some little hoys 
play ball in the back lot of a store-build- 
ing, I am carried back to my boyhood 
days, just after, and during the latter part of, the 
war between the ETorth and South. I can remember 
many of the impressions made upon my youthful 
mind, and many of the incidents connected with 
those days. Then most of my time was spent play- 
ing with the little niggers,’’ and listening to the 
older ones tell their many queer stories, couched in 
their own peculiar language which I have here 
endeavored to reproduce just as it sounded to me 
then. 


The negro dialect or folk-lore of the negro race, 
as we heard it in those days, is fast disappearing, 
and it is only among the older negroes that you hear 
the genuine negro dialect. The language of the 
younger generation of negroes, that have grown 
up since the war, is a strange conglomeration of 
negro talk and bad grammar, resulting in part from 
their tendency to imitate their white neighbors; so 
65 


\ 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


that it is positively refreshing to meet and hear an 

old time ’’ old issue ’’ negro talk. 

In those days my nearest neighbor owmed an old 
fat negro man of the name of Harvey King, who 
spent his time looking after the boys, to help keep 
them out of mischief. We always called him Uncle 
Harvey. Kow Uncle Harvey was a character in his 
way, and was a good, religious old man, and spent 
many of his hours singing and praying I can 
almost hear now the old negro’s voice singing liis 
evening hymns, hut cannot remember the words of 
his songs. Why this is so seems to me strange. 
When, however, I think over it carefully I am per- 
suaded that he did not really use words. Neverthe- 
less, his songs to me were beautiful, and I know the 
old man is now with the saints on the other shore : — 
Jn fact, he must have been almost a saint here to 
have borne patiently, as he did, the many pranks we 
boys played on him. 

We spent a good part of our time doing things 
especially to worry and annoy Uncle Harvey; not 
that we did not love him, but because we did not want 
Inm with us all the time, and at other times we 
behaved provokingly just to hear him talk. But we 
were as loyal to Uncle Harvey as he was to us. No 
one would do anything unfriendly to him without 
stirring up a hornet’s nest about his ears. No matter 
what the Avhite boys did to annoy or tease him, it 

06 . 


HOW THE LITTLE BOYS BROKE UP A REVIVAL 


would have been dangerous for anyone else to 
attempt it. So the old man was as sure of our affec- 
tion for him as we were of his for us. I do not 
remember that he ever reported any of us to our par- 
ents for anything we did, although he would con- 
stantly threaten to do so. How he managed to make 
us believe he would do so, when there was never an 
instance of his having done so, is a mystery. The 
two older boys were the hardest for him to manage 
and they led the old man a dance; hut in the main, 
he was equal to all emergencies. 

One evening, just after sundown. Uncle Harvey 
lost track of the boys,” and he said to the little boy. 
Honey, does yo’ know whar Willum and Sildum 
is ? ” He replied, Uncle Harvey, I heard them 
say they were going to Smyth’s School-house to 
preaching.” Dun gone to Smif’s School-house is 
dey? Well, I is er gwine atter ’em rite now — does 
yo’ want ter go, honey?” The little boy replied 
that he did, so off they started. 

Smyth’s School-house was a log building located 
about a mile from our home, and was used both 
for a school and a church. The Methodist circuit- 
rider had a regular appointment to preach there once 
a month, and sometimes there would be a protracted 
meeting and an old-fashioned revival, where every- 
body in the community would profess religion, and 
would shout and sing, and shake hands and laugh 
67 


SOUTILERX PLANTATION STORIES 


and cry, all at the same time, and embrace each 
other, and renew their vows to “ meet me in 
heaven.’’ 

It was to one of these revival meetings that the 
boys had gone, when Uncle Harvey missed them. 
Uncle Harvey was about as much pleased to go to 
the meetings as the boys, for all the white folks liked 
him, and he loved them ; he knew how to wait on 
de white folks,” and he liked to do it. Freedom 
(emancipation) was no blessing to Uncle Harvey, 
for he had his white friends who supplied his every 
want, and the white children would divide anything 
they had with Uncle Harvey.” He knew his place, 
kept it, and was loved and respected by the white 
folks, till the day of his death, and his memory is 
still cherished by hundreds who knew him. 

As we journeyed on our way to the old meeting- 
house, we came to a little patch of woods, through 
which the road passed, about the time it was getting 
dark. Uncle Harvey, like all of his race, was super- 
stitious, and the shadows of evening always filled 
the old man’s mind with weird fancies. It was his 
Four for inspiration, and well the children knew it. 
The Little Boy said, Uncle Harvey, people say this 
place is haunted ; do you believe it ? ” 

Cose I believes it, honey ; aint I dun seed hants 
’bout yere fo’ dis, but I’s not feared er no hants, an’ 
mo’ ’en dat, honey, dis yer aint de time night fur 
68 





‘ Uncle Harvey, people say this place is haunted.’ 


• « 







i 


HOW THE LITTLE BOYS BROKE UP A REVIVAL 


liants ; liants don’t truble fo’ midnight. Aint yo’ dun 
heah Uncle Harvey tell yo’ dat fo’ dis ? ” 

Yes, I have heard yon say that, Uncle Harvey, 
many a time, but what sort of a thing is a hant^ 
anyhow ? ” 

Well, honey, sum say dey looks lek one thing, 
and sum say dey looks lek nnther, but de one I seed 
long yer one night, wuz lek a hoss, ceptin’ hit never 
had no hed on, and de man wha was on ’im neber 
had no hed on ’im niither; but de man had a sode 
in e belt, and spurs on e heel, an’ ’stid er ridin’ lek 
ynther folks, he rid wid his face tods de bosses tail.” 

The little boy said, Uncle Harvey, I thought 
you said the man did not have any head. How could 
you see which way his face was ? ” 

Well, I do declar’ to goodness, ef yo’ aint de out 
doinest chil’ in dis worl’. Aint I dun tol’ yo’ dat 
hant had on spurs, an sode in e belt, an’ of cose, yo’ 
know which way he face wuz, ef e had any face; 
an’ de hoss dun mek no noise wid e feet when he 
walk ; en wen yo’ stop, e stop, an wen yo’ start, e start ; 
an’ e don’ get no closer, ner no furder, en e jes f oiler 
yo’ eber whar yo’ go; an’ yo’ can’t tech ’im, en yo’ 
can’t heah ’im ; but eber whar yo’ go, dar he is.” 

Just at this juncture Uncle Harvey’s story was 
cut short by some one liid in a ditch close by the 
roadside, saying, Halt.” 

Who dat say halt,” replied Uncle Harvey. eTust 
69 


SOUTHEEN PLANTATION STOEIES 


then two shots rang out, bang ! bang ! Uncle Harvey 
struck out in a trot and said, I’s er gwine ter have 
jo’ up fur dat.” Bang! bang! went two more shots 
and the burning tow-wads from the gun fell close 
to Uncle Harvey’s feet. By this time he was in a 
full run, having already caught the Little Boy by 
the hand. He never waited for any further invita- 
tions to halt, nor for any further conversation, but we 
went as fast as our feet would carry us. Uncle 
Harvey, being very fat, was soon out of breath and 
was puffing like a wind-broken horse. The Little 
Boy was not scared of course, for he knew it was 
Willum and Sildum,” having already previously 
arranged with them that he would tell Uncle Harvey 
they had gone to Smyth’s School-house. 

The Little Boy said, Uncle Harvey, that must 
have been ^ bushwhackers.’ ” 

Bern’s no bushwhackers, honey, dem’s Klu 
Kluxes ; dat’s wat hit is — -haint I dun seed ’em wid 
my own eyes — cum on yer, honey, taint no time ter 
talk; dey will git us fo’ we gits to de school-house 
sho’.” 

So we went on as fast as we could to the school- 
house. When we got there. Uncle Harvey was so 
near out of wind, that he couldn’t speak, but just sat 
behind the door and puffed like a steam-engine, and 
the perspiration was streaming down his black shiny 
face. 


70 


HOW THE LITTLE BOYS BROKE UP A REVIVAL 


The preacher was just in the midst of a very fer- 
vent prayer. So, owing to the preacher’s prayer and 
the other brethren shouting Amen,” supplemented 
by Uncle Harvey’s puffing — which all in the house 
ascribed to religious emotion, the little school-house 
was in quite a commotion. As soon as the prayer 
was over. Uncle Harvey managed to get one of the 
men outside, and tell him of the occurrence. I have 
always regretted I did not hear this conversation, but 
suffice it to say, the brother came in and announced 
that bushwhackers were in the neighborhood, and that 
it would he wise to dismiss the congregation. Uncle 
Harvey and the Little Boy were the heroes of the 
evening, having just escaped death from the bush- 
whackers, and Uncle Harvey showed them sundry 
holes in his clothing which he vowed had been made 
by bulits.” 

Curiously enough, in his excitement he never 
missed Willum and Sildum ” from church, and he 
told them when we got home about his narrow escape. 

How chillens, dese yer is sutenly skeery times, 
and Unk Harvey out er huntin’ yo’ and yer yo’ is er 
settin’ in de house all de time. I declar’ fo’ de 
Lawd, yo’ is de beatinest chillens eher I seed. I don’ 
know wat er gwine ter cum er yo’ atter Unk Harvey 
dun dead an’ gone. De Klu Klux, er bushwhackers, 
er de bants, er sumpin’ will sholy git yo’. How yo’ 
71 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


is dum-pintedly lieah’d wat Unk Harvey is got ter 
say.’' 

The joke by this time had assumed such a serious 
aspect in the community that it was several weeks 
before we told how we had broken up the meeting. 

Uncle Harvey has been dead many years, but his 
quaint stories and Christian character are fresh in 
the memory of many men and women, Avho, as cliil- 
dren, loved to hear him talk and sing and pray. 


72 


THE CABIH IX THE WOODS 


HERE is a plant that grows in Mexico which 
has a strange effect upon people. When any 
one conies into the vicinity where it grows, 
he immediately loses his bearings.” He 
does not know where he is, nor which way to go, but 
feels a sense of bewilderment until he gets away from 
its influence. I do not know of any herb of this kind 
in Southwest Virginia, but I do know, or used to 
know, of a weird spot in the mountains that liad a 
similar effect upon one. This place Tvas on the top 
of one of the foothills of Walker’s Mountain, in the 
midst of the thickest, heaviest forest of white oaks 
and poplars, and far away from any house or public 
road. 

There was, on top of this knoll, a sort of tableland 
of about half an acre, covered with a compact sod of 
native blue-grass. There had once been a cabin 
there, judging from what seemed to be the ruins of 
an old building of some kind, and there were a few 
old peach trees, and the trunk of an old apple tree 
still standing. The knoll was flat on top and sloped 
away symmetrically on all sides. The grass grew 
even and smooth, and always looked as if it had been 
73 




SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


mown with a lawn-mower. At the foot of the hill, 
on one side, ran a small creek ; on another side was a 
freestone ’’ spring, the only one known to be in 
existence in this limestone country; on another side 
was an opening to a cave; and on the side opposite 
to the mouth of the cave, was a scoop out ’’ in the 
ground, covered with a smooth, beautiful growth of 
blue-grass. I^ot a weed or flower, or a sprig grew 
here, though wild flowers were abundant everywhere 
else on the mountain sides; but no matter how long- 
continued was a drouth in summer, this place 
looked as if favored by constant showers. Why 
the grass never grew tall and why no other growth 
dared show itself, I cannot say. It was the most 
silent spot in the world. I never saw a bird or 
squirrel, or even an insect, on this spot of ground, 
and, indeed, one rarely ever heard or saw anything 
of the kind in the woods nearby, though I have occa- 
sionally seen a pheasant along the creek. I visited 
this spot a number of times when I was a hoy. You 
could lie on this turf and he absolutely sure of not 
being disturbed by insects, or bugs, while you 
watched the blue sky, or the fleecy white clouds that 
floated above you. It was a place of absolute quiet 
and solitude. 

But the strangest thing about this place was that 
you could go there and sit or lie down for awhile, 
and when you got up to leave, you could not tell for 
74 


THE CABIN IN THE WOODS 


the life of you which way you came in, although you 
had the spring, and the cave, and the creek for land- 
marks. In spite of yourself, the question would 
always arise, which is the /right way out? This 
Avoiild happen not only occasionally, but always, and 
not only with one person, but with every one. I have 
reasoned and puzzled over this, but never reached a 
solution of it. 

But there was a still stranger thing about this 
place. I had two faithful dogs, almost human in 
intelligence, and as obedient to me as dogs could be. 
They would follow me into this place, but I could 
not keep them there. They would lie down for a few 
moments, but soon becoming restless would go off, 
and lie in the woods nearby. When I called them 
back, they would come, but I could not keep them 
long before they again showed signs of restlessness, 
and would get up and leave me. Into that cave they 
would not go, though they would go into any other 
hole willingly at my bidding. In fact I have never 
known of any animal running into the cave, though 
I have known of them coming out. Even foxes 
chased by the hounds sought no refuge there. I have 
seen the fox-hounds run foxes all over the surround- 
ing woods, but never knew a fox or rabbit to run into 
that hole. I never knew the cause of this; there 
was no peculiar odor about the place, nor any pecul- 
75 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


iar sensation felt, except that of loneliness and 
solitude. 

It was on this spot, years afteinvard, that Old 
Witch Mary ” lived. She was as strange and weird 
a character as the spot on which she dwelt. How 
she got her cabin built on this spot no one was ever 
able to tell definitely, though there were many the- 
ories about it; but, anyway, her cabin was there and 
may be there to this day, although poor old Witch 
Mary has long since passed away. Her end was as 
mysterious and uncanny as her hut that stood on this 
enchanted spot. 

It was supposed that the negroes in the country 
had built the cabin for her in a single night; that 
they had the timber cut, and by a preconcerted plan 
had met on some particular night and j)ut together 
this building for Mary. But why they did so, no 
one could even suggest a reason; and why they built 
it on the enchanted or Haunted Knoll,’’ as they 
called it, was still more remarkable; for they were 
not only afraid of Witch Mary, but they were exceed- 
ingly superstitious about this spot. Then, why or 
how they could have been induced to go there in the 
night and build this hut, was something hard to 
explain. No one of the negroes was ever known to 
do otherwise than to deny that they ever had any- 
thing to do with it. 

Another theory was that some white men built 
76 



This mysterious hut stood there for years. 






THE CABIN IN THE WOODS 


this hut for Mary, and had done it for the purpose 
of keeping the negroes in awe of her, for they be- 
lieved she could Hoodoo ” them, and could tell any 
secret in the world, if she desired to do so. If any- 
thing was stolen or lost in the community, or any 
mysterious thing happened, Mary could tell all about 
it, provided she desired to do so. It was, therefore, 
supposed by some that white people had built this 
cabin for Witch Mary. But, conjectures aside, one 
thing was certain; Mary had the cabin, and no one 
ever knew by whom or when it was built. The white 
people said' the negroes built it, the negroes said the 
Indians had come back and built it and stole away 
in the night. Old Mary said, He angels flew 
down from de skies Avhile I was asleep on de ground, 
an’ wen I wake up de cabin wuz standin’ over me.” 
This was all she would ever tell. 

So this mysterious hut, built on this enchanted 
spot, for this weird, eccentric, and queer little, old 
black woman stood there for years as Mary’s home, 
and for years after her death also it was believed to 
be a haunted house,” and there were many queer 
stories in vogue about it. Many a time have the 
children, white and black, been made to tremble with 
fear by the tales told by the black Mammies about 
Witch Mary and this hut. All that was necessary to 
make children take castor-oil, or any other bad medi- 
cine, was to tell them that old Witch Mary was 
77 


SOUTIIERX PLAXTATIOX STORIES 


coming to get them and take them away to her cabin 
in the woods. The oil would be immediately swal- 
lowed and no crying or fussing heard. If a negro 
was sick in the negro quarters, Witch Mary ” was 
supposed to have something to do with it, and yet, 
she was loA^ed and respected by all the white people, 
and loved and feared by all the negroes. 

If any of the little pickaninnies were sick, 
Mary ’’ could cure them with her herbs and her 
incantations. If they died, Mary was the cause of 
their death. 

Mary was also sometimes called Free Mary,’’ 
because she did not belong to any one. Witch Mary’s, 
or Free Mary’s, cabin was always nice and clean, and 
everything in perfect order. She had thousands of 
bunches of herbs and little bags of leaves hung up all 
around the walls, and she made her decoctions of 
herbs for all the different diseases that the negroes 
had. Some of her medicine must have been effica- 
cious, for she could beyond a doubt cure any sort of 
snake bites. She was sent for far and near, if any 
one was snake-bitten, and she always effected a cure ; 
at least, no one ever died from snake bite after Mary 
had administered some of her snake medicine, and 
had applied some of the leaves to the bite. 

Once there were some horses stolen from a farmer 
in the community which could nowhere be traced. 
On conferring with Mary, she told the farmer that 
78 


THE CABIN IN THE WOODS 


his horses had been ridden in the night to a certain 
place in an adjoining county and turned loose; that 
the thieves had gone on; that the horses would all be 
found there, except one; that that one would never 
be found, and that the man who stole it was not in 
possession of it. The horses were found as she pre- 
dicted. 

She always said that at the foot of the mountain, 
a half a mile from her cabin, there was silver and 
lead in abundance, but she would never say where 
the spot was. She further maintained that it was 
not best for the men of this generation to know it; 
that it was put there for people of another genera- 
tion ; and that for this reason she would not tell where 
it was. This statement was made a short time before 
her death. 

Many such things she told, and very often she 
was correct in her predictions. How she foretold 
future events, and how she could tell past events 
unknown to others was as strange as her life. 

Uncle Andy and the Little Boy went one day to 
her cabin to ask her where some hogs could be found, 
which had disappeared from the farm (no negro was 
ever known to go to Mary’s cabin alone). She very 
promptly said in answer to our inquiry: 

Wat yo’ cum yere fo’, axin’ ’bout de hogs, wen 
de hogs is at de barn asleep in de straw.” 

Uncle Andy said, Mary, yo’ knows dem hogs is 
79 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


not dar ; dey bin gone fer fo’ weeks ; dey is not gwine 
ter lay in de straw fo’ weeks, dat yo’ knows.’’ 

Dey not bin layin’ dar fur fo’ weeks ; dey lias bin 
dar des a little while.” This is all she would say 
about the hogs. Thereupon she took the Little Boy 
on her lap, looked into his face for a long time, then 
put her hands on his head, and said: 

“ Mary’s time yer is mighty nigh up — dis is de 
las’ time she’l see dis pretty black head, en dese 
pretty black eyes. Mary wuz in de skies, en’ she 
seed de place whar she is gwine — dar wuz some beau- 
tiful chillen dar, en’ dey wuz all ez happy ez de day 
wuz long. Mary will spend her time dar playin’ 
Avid dem little chillen, en’ bathin’ dem in de crystal 
Avater — de AA^ater dar is so bright an’ clear, an’ de 
floAA^ers is so SAA^eet ! Mary seed de very chillens whar 
is to cum fur her — some is black en’ some is Avhite ; 
dey is gwine ter bring de floAvers to put on Mary’s 
po’ ole Avrinkled body, en’ den Mary Avill be gone 
from dis house, en’ Mary Avon’t tell nobody fo’ she 
go AAdiar de silver is. It is deep in de groun’, en’ de 
caA^e en’ de spring has secrets, but Mary aint gAvine 
tell yo’ noAV. Dis is de las’ time I’s gwine to see yo’ 
face, honey. I is tole Andy Avhar is de hogs — dis is 
de las’ secret Mary is gAvine ter tell on dis yearth.” 

Come on, honey,” said Andy. Les go long 
oil ten dis yer place — tain no time to be foolin’ Avid 
Mary. She don’t knoAV no mo’ Avhar dem hogs is den 

80 


THE CABIN IN THE WOODS 


yo’ does; en’ sides dat, Mary dim gone ter talkin’ 
’bout de yuther worl’, an’ Andy do’n lack dat kine 
er talk no how. I is gwine onten dis place.” 

Well, good-bye, x\ndy,” said Mary, an’ good- 
bye ter yo’, honey.” Mary will be waitin’ fo’ yo’ 
when yo’ comes ter see her.” 

With this she sat down on the ground, and we 
could not get her to say another word, nor even look 
at us; her thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. 

AVe hurried out of the woods and journeyed home- 
ward. Andy saying nothing until we were near our 
journey’s end. Then he said, Ole Witch Mary 
talk powful cu’uous dis ebenin.’ I woner wat she 
studyn’ ’bout now — she dun missed hit ’bout dem 
hogs do, dats sho’. How in de name of de Lawd she 
think dem hogs er gwine ter git in de barn lot in de 
straw en’ nobody see em — dat ole woman dun los’ 
her mine at las’, — Andy dun said she wuz crazy, now 
he know it. I is feared uv dat ole woman anyhow, 
en’ I aint gwine back dar no mo’, hogs er no hogs.” 

As we were about reaching home, we met one of 
the little negroes who called, ‘^Unc Andy, de hogs 
dun come home, an’ is en de barn yard er lavin’ in 
de straw pile.” Uncle Andy said, Don’t dat beat de 
debil; dats jes wat ole Mary said — how in de name 
of de Lawd do she know dem hogs wuz dar; dat 
beats me sho’. I aint gwine ’bout dat ole woman 
narry nuther time.” 


81 


SOUTHERN PLAXTATIOX STORIES 


Three days after this poor old Witch Mary was 
found dead in her cabin, her body covered with with- 
ered flowers. Who had been there and brought the 
flowers was never known, but true to her prophecy, 
the old woman had gone from earth to bathe in the 
crystal water. Mary’s hut, this strange spot of 
ground, the old woman herself, and her strange life 
and death, were always a mystery to those who knew 
her, and remain so to this day. 


82 


THE BLIXD FIDDLER 


H the thickening shadows of the evening a 
young man walked leisurely down the path 
that led to the front porch of an old- 
fashioned farm-house. The honeysuckle 
almost obscured the front of the house as they 
hung thick on the lattice work that ran almost en- 
tirely around it. They were in full bloom, and the 
fragrance so strong that the gentle summer wind 
carried it on its breath for more than a mile. The 
moon was full and had just peeped over the hilltop 
in front of the house, and looked like a crown of 
silver on the head of some great giant. 

The young man walked up to the front door and 
rapped as he had done many times before, and 
waited patiently for a response from the Blind 
Fiddler to Come in.” 

Failing to receive the usual response to his knock, 
he repeated it, and stood waiting in the silence, until 
the hum from the wings of the moths and myriads 
of insects in the honeysuckle sounded like distant 
music. The weird notes of a screech owl from the 
old oak tree that stood in the front yard gave the 
young man a decidedly lonely feeling, though these 
83 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


were familiar sounds from his earliest recollection. 

Still not receiving any response to his knock, he 
ventured to try the door. It yielded and he threw 
it open wide, and the full-orbed moon shone squarely 
in the door from over the hilltop, and filled the room 
with a soft, uncertain light, rendering the objects in 
the room visible, but indistinct. The only sound was 
the lonely chirp of a cricket from somewhere near 
the old stone hearth. 

He stood irresolute for a moment, uncertain 
whether to enter or not, hut finally did so. 

Uncle Han ! ’’ he called. Ho response save the 
chirp of the cricket on the hearth. As his eyes be- 
came more accustomed to the darkness of the room 
he could see the chairs, but none were occupied. The 
bed stood in the corner in a deeper shadow ; he could 
see the white counterpane and some dark object on 
the bed. 

Being filled with superstitious dread, he almost 
screamed, Uncle Dan ! 

What’s the matter, my hoy ? Is the house on 
fire ? ” came the response. 

Why no, hut you frightened me out of my wits ; 
it was so quiet in here, and so lonely, and no sound 
but the hum of the insects in the honeysuckle and the 
chirp of the cricket on the hearth, and so dark I could 
not see you. I Avas afraid you might be dead.” 

Ho light in the room, dark, and dead,” the Blind 
84 


THE ELID’D FIDDLER 


Fiddler repeated after him. Did it ever occur to 
you/’ said he, “ that there is never any light in the 
room for me ? Xo matter how bright the sun shines, 
nor how the silver moonbeams light up the room, it 
is always dark to me. I do not know why I have the 
lamp lighted at night ; it gives no light to me. The 
world is as dark to me, my boy, at noon as it is at 
midnight. The golden sunshine and the silver moon- 
light are all the same to me — one eternal niglit.” 

Oh, Uncle Dan ! don’t talk that way. Let me 
light the lamp. I can’t stay in this dark room. I 
am sure it will seem brighter to you anyway.” 

The young man lit the lamp, and with the liglit his 
heart also grew lighter. 

LTncle Dan,” he said, play some on the violin 
for me. I came over to hear you play. It will be the 
last time I will hear you before I go to college again. 
I am sure I would be willing to be blind to be able 
to play the violin like you can.” 

IS’^othing can take the place of sight, my boy. 
Those who can see cannot realize, or begin to think 
what it means to be blind. ISTo man can tell you what 
it means. Darkness — everlasting darkness — is all 
you can see. Did you ever wake up in the night in 
a dark room, open your eyes, and tiw to look about 
you, try to see, and the only thing you can see is 
blackness? You turn your head every way, and 
strain your eyes to see, but every way you look all is 

85 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


blackness. You hear the voices of your friends and 
loved ones speaking out of blackness. You hear the 
birds singing and the wind blowing; you hear the 
water ripple and smell perfume of the flowers ; you 
hear the lowing of the herd, the bleating of the lambs, 
and the busy sounds from fowls in the barnyard. 
You hear the droning of the drowsy beetle, the chirp 
of the cricket and the grasshopper, the hum of the 
bees, and the busy insect world. You hear the crash 
of the thunder and the roar of the winds. You hear 
the summer breeze as it whispers through the leaves 
and kisses the petals of the blushing flowers and steals 
away laden with their perfume. You hear all the 
sounds from the busy marts of trade, and all the sweet 
sounds from the voices of nature from whatever 
source they come, but they all come from the bosom 
of utter darkness, from the world of eternal night. 
Can you understand what I mean, my boy ? ’’ 

The blind man sat musing for a time, then took up 
the violin and rapped on it with the bow, as was his 
custom, and began to play a piece of his own composi- 
tion, which he called the Prayer Meeting,” in imi- 
tation of the exhortation, the song, and the prayer. 

It was a remarkable production. How he could 
imitate with the strings the voices, the songs and the 
prayers to such perfection was marvellous. 

After playing this piece, he laid down the violin 
and fell into a reverie. 


86 


THE BLIND FIDDLER 




“ Uncle Dan, are you asleep ? ’’ 

'No,, my boy; .only walking in the spirit. I do 
not want you to feel gloomy from what I said to you 
about being blind. I can see with my spiritual eyes. 
I see the new heaven and the new earth. It won’t be 
long until God will wipe away all tears from my face, 
and these scales will fall from my eyes, and I will see 
the Holy City, the Hew Jerusalem, prepared as a 
bride for her husband ; all things shall be made new. 
I will see the great City, having the glory of God, 
and it’s light will be like a jasper stone, clear as 
crystal; the foundations thereof will be garnished 
with all precious stones ; the gates will be pearl, and 
the streets pure gold. There will be no need of a sun, 
neither the moon shall shine: the glory of God will 
light it. I am blind, my boy, but I can see. God’s 
grace and love is sufficient for me. I am contented 
with my lot. I would not exchange places with the 
richest man in the world and have my sight restored, 
if it would rob me of this ‘ peace that passeth all 
understanding.’ ” 

Within a few days the young man had gone to a 
medical college to complete his course. He had been 
very skeptical in his view^s, and was inclined, as are 
many young medical men, to be atheistic. His last 
visit to the Blind Fiddler’s house, and his conversa- 
tion with him, had made a deep impression on him. 
He had many times gone over in his mind the beau- 
87 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


tiful faith and trust this blind man had in God, and 
how it alone sustained him and made him content and 
happy, even in his terrible affliction. 

It was a, raw and gusty night in March, nearing the 
close of the session. The young student, in his black 
gown, was seated on a stool in the dissecting room on 
the fifth fioor of the building. It was two o^clock in 
the night, and all the other students had long since 
gone down, but he had determined to remain and 
finish the dissection he was doing, if it took him until 
daylight. Even the restless crowds on the busy 
streets far below had grown quiet. He was making 
a delicate dissection and absorbed in his work. 

There were seven subjects (stiffs) on the tables. 
The one at the farther side of the room and nearest 
the window had been brought in that night, and had 
a towel throivn over the face, which had not been 
removed. 

While he was busy with his* work he heard a 
slight noise at the farther side of the room. He 
glanced around, but saw nothing, and concluded it 
was a rat, as they sometimes infest dissecting rooms. 
In a short while he again heard the same noise ; but 
still seeing nothing, continued his work. He was 
not afraid, but overwork and loss of sleep had made 
him slightly nervous. Hearing the noise the third 
time, he got down from his stool and went the rounds, 
looking at each dead body as he passed the tables on 
88 


THE BLIND FIDDLER 


which they lay. Each face was as familiar to him as 
the faces of the boys that were dissecting them. 
There they lay as silent as the tomb. Finding noth- 
ing, he had returned to his work, when suddenly there 
was a rattle and a crash that made him jump from 
his seat and stand staring across the room, but every- 
thing was quiet. 

Again he went to the farther side of the room to see 
what had made the crash, and to his relief he dis- 
covered that the janitor had set a pan of hones which 
he had been cleaning on the end of the curtain in 
the window, which was down from the top, and when 
a gust of wind came it lifted the side of the pan, 
which dropped back with a rattle until finally a 
stronger breeze came, upsetting the pan with a rattle 
and bang on the floor. 

He picked up the bones, replaced them in the pan, 
set them back in the window, and turned around to 
the table that stood behind him, lifting the towel from 
the face of the cadaver. Imagine, if you can, his 
surprise to see the face of the Blind Fiddler, his 
friend, before him. He could not believe his own 
eyes ; he turned on all the electric lights ; there could 
be no mistake. There were the sightless orbs, and 
every feature perfect, with a calm and peaceful look 
on his face; even a smile seemed to be on his lips. 
He was so shocked he could not yet believe it was his 
friend ; but he knew of a scar that he had in the palm 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


of his hand that would identify him beyond the 
shadow of a doubt. He examined the hand ; the scar 
was there; there could be no mistake, it was his 
friend. 

He hastily left the dissecting room and went to his 
own room, where he had not been since morning, and 
threw himself in a chair to collect his thoughts. His 
last visit and the conversation of the Blind Fiddler 
were as plain to him as if they had just happened. 
There was an inexpressible satisfaction to him to re- 
member the beautiful faith he had in God. How 
those blind eyes could see, and those dead lips spoke 
to him from the darkness, from the blackness. 

He arose from his seat and discovered some letters 
that had been put on his table during his absence. 
One from home told of the sudden death and burial 
of the Blind Fiddler. All doubt was set at rest ; but 
how could he have gotten there ? 

He announced to the college authorities the facts, 
and telegraphed home that the remains would be im- 
mediately returned. An examination of the graves 
of the quiet country cemetery revealed the fact that 
numbers of them were empty, which led to the 
unearthing of a gang of ghouls that had been robbing 
the graves. 

When the remains returned a large crowd had as- 
sembled to attend the burial. The golden light of a 
90 


THE BLIND FIDDLER 


brilliant sunset fell full into the grave, giving the 
already yellow earth an unusual brightness. 

A solemn hush pervaded the throng, when suddenly 
there seemed to be sounds of faraway music, when all 
with one accord looked toward the sky, each face 
having depicted on it anticipation and surprise. 

It was one of the most remarkable scenes ever wit- 
nessed, the silence and solemnity were oppressive, and 
to this day no one that was present ever refers to it 
except with awe and bated breath. 

The Blind Tiddler was in the dissecting room, but 
spoke from Paradise. The medical student was 
skeptical, but the clouds have been brushed away. 


91 







AiSr ADVENTUEE 


IlIE Doctor horse was lame; he had many 
calls to make and no horse. He was sitting 
on the front porch thinking what he would 
do, when Captain Chesterfield Smyth rode 
up to the gate. Everybody called him Captain. Ho 
one ever knew how he came by the title, unless it was 
because his father was a major, and he was, therefore, 
a captain by birth. 

Hello, Doctor ! Don’t you want to buy a horse ? ” 
If there was anything the Doctor did want then it 
was a horse, but he did not think it the best policy to 
let the Captain know it. 

Well, hardly to-day. Captain. Get down and 
come in.” 

Ho ; you come out and look at this horse anyway. 
He is a fine saddler,” said the Captain. 

The Doctor walked leisurely down, leaned over the 
gate, and after awhile remarked: 

That is the first horse I ever saw that had a hind 
leg curved like half of a barrel hoop.” 

All good saddle horses have crooked hind legs,” 
said the Captain. I never knew a horse with a leg 
like this that was not a good mover.” 

93 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Yes, but he is hogbacked. I don’t want a horse 
with a back like that.” 

Did you ever see a horse with a back like that, 
Doctor, that was not a good saddler ? It’s a sign I 
never knew to fail.” 

Yes ; but see how narrow he is in the chest and 
sharp between the fore legs. He’s got no wind.” 

A horse that is narrow between the fore legs 
never stumbles; they are all sure-footed; just the 
kind of a horse for a doctor.” 

I had just as soon own a dromedary,” said the 
Doctor. 

What in the devil is a dromedary ? Are they im- 
ported horses ? You can’t find one that will beat this 
horse moving. Get on and try him.” 

The Doctor mounted and gave him a turn up and 
dovn the road, and was surprised to find that he did 
go surprisingly well. 

What’s your price for him ? ” said the Doctor. 

My asking price is ninety dollars. I would take 
eighty,” replied the Captain. 

Fifty dollars is a big price for him. I would 
give you thirty-five dollars,” replied the Doctor, and 
be sorry for that.” 

Is that the best you could do for a horse like this ? 
You don’t want me to give you a horse, do you ? ” 
The Doctor saw the Captain was going to take him 
up on the thirty-five dollar offer, and quickly added: 

94 


AN ADVENTURE 


I would not have him if you would give him to 
me.’’ 

The Captain had lost hy not accepting the thirty- 
five dollar offer at once. He waited a moment, and 
seeing a cow in a lot nearby, said : 

Hoav will you trade that cow for this horse ? ” 

The Doctor had just taken the cow on a twelve- 
dollar debt. He replied : 

I will give you the cow for the horse.” 

Give me five dollars to boot, and it’s a trade.” 

Xo,” said the Doctor ; I will split the differ- 
ence and give you two and a half.” 

Well, being’s it’s you. Doc, I’ll let hii^ go at that; 
but you have burnt me up on this trade.” 

As the Captain started he turned, came back, and 
said : 

Doctor, there is one thing about that horse I for- 
got to tell you : his head swims when he crosses water, 
and he’s apt to go down the river or lie down in the 
water with you. You will have to watch him on that 
point.” 

A good deal of the Doctor’s practice being on the 
other side of the river, he was now convinced that 
the Captain had gotten the best of him. 

That night, about twelve o’clock, someone called the 
Doctor. It was Arnett, who lived eight miles on the 
other side of the river. The Doctor saddled his new 
horse, and they set out. As they rode along the 
95 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 

muddy roads at a slow pace, Arnett was singing and 
talking, the Doctor moody and silent. 

They arrived at last, cold and muddy. The lamp 
was still burning, but the fire had died down to a few 
smouldering embers. Arnett soon had a bright blaze 
going, and when the Doctor had warmed a little, he 
said : 

Bill, where is the patient ? ’’ 

I gad, it’s me,” he replied. 

The Doctor was not sure he understood him. He 
repeated the question. 

It’s me, I say.” 

Well, !• don’t understand you. You don’t mean 
to say it is you that is burnt ? ” 

Yes, I do ; it’s me/' 

Are you crazy? You don’t mean you came after 
me and had me ride eight miles over these roads with 
you to see you ? ” 

Yes, I do. I am the one that’s burnt.” 

AVell, let’s see the burn.” 

Bill proceeded to pull up the right leg of his 
trousers, and sure enough, the entire calf of his leg 
was cooked. It was so hard when the Doctor tapped 
it with an instrument it sounded like rapping on a 
dry board. 

Well, how did you do that, and why did you 
come after me and have me ride eight miles to see 
you when you were already at my ofiice ? ” 

00 


ADVENTURE 


Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Doc. I was drunk 
and laid down before the fire, and a chunk fell down 
against my leg while I was asleep, and when I woke 
up I was singing, ^ Fire in the mountains, run, hoys, 
run.’ I put the fire out and started for the Doctor to 
come to see me; and here you are, and I want you 
to do something for me. It hurts like the devil.” 

The Doctor was too mad to appreciate the joke. 
He dressed the burn without comment, and hastily 
left the house and started back home, mad as a 
March hare.” 

He had forgotten all about his new horse when he 
came to the ford of the river. The river was shallow 
at the ford, and not far from bank to bank. He rode 
in, absorbed in thinking of the absurd thing he had 
just done, and was only called to his senses by the 
unusual length of time it was taking him to reach 
the opposite bank, when it occurred to him what 
Captain Smyth had told him about the horse’s head 
swimming when he crossed water. 

He realized that he must have gotten below the 
ford and was going down the river. He stopped and 
tried to peer into the darkness to see the other bank, 
but could see nothing. 

About this time the horse developed the other trait 
he had been warned of by the Captain, and started 
to lie down. The Doctor became excited; he drove 
the spurs into the horse’s side, turned his head to- 
97 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


wards the bank, and felt relieved when he found he 
had reached dry land. 

He got down and led the horse to see if he could 
find the road, and was surprised to find that he came 
toHhe water’s edge again. He turned around, went 
the other direction, and very soon the same condition 
confronted him ; every way he went he came to water. 
He was bewildered, and sat down to think, arriving 
at the conclusion that the horse had gone down the 
river, and that he was now on a small island. He 
located the north star, and wisely concluded his course 
was south, having entered the ford on the north bank. 

He was revolving in his mind the advisability of 
waiting for day, although he was wet and cold, when 
he heard the growl of distant thunder. Looking to 
the west, he saw dark clouds gathering; there was 
going to be a storm. He knew it would not do to wait 
any longer, as the mountain streams rose very rapidly 
during a heavy storm. 

Leading his horse to the bank, he mounted, fixed 
himself well in the saddle, and put spurs to him. He 
hesitated, drew back, wheeled about, reared and re- 
fused to go in ; but by whip and spur he finally made 
the plunge and went in up to the saddle. 

The Doctor was alarmed ; he had not expected this ; 
but there was nothing to do but trust to luck and push 
ahead, when, to his gTeat relief, he found the water 
getting shallow, and in a few moments he struck the 


98 


AX ADVENTURE 


bank. He could have shouted. Columbus was no 
happier when he set foot on American soil than was 
the Doctor when his light-headed ’’ horse set hoof 
on that solid ground. 

Though the storm was rapidly approaching, and 
he was cold and wet to the skin, and his saddle pock- 
ets with the medicine gone to physic the fishes, he did 
not care. He soon found the road that led from the 
river through a long, dark gorge called Dead Man’s 
Hollow.” It was said that a man had been murdered 
in this gulch many years ago and the place was 
haunted ; but the Doctor felt so much relieved at his 
escape from the river that he thought nothing of the 
dark, gloomy gulch and gTewsome stories he had 
heard of Dead Man’s Hollow.” 

He thought it must be true that the darkest hours 
are just before dawn,” for the darkness was intense ; 
the clouds had thickened, the thunder had grown 
more distinct, the storm would soon be on. 

He urged his horse along as fast as he could with 
safety, when he begun to hear the leaves rustle and 
the twigs crack, as if some animal was walking in 
the leaves near him. He peered into the darkness, but 
saw nothing, but keeping his eyes turned in the direc- 
tion of the sound, he presently saw what appeared to 
be two balls of fire, evidently the eyes of some wild 
animal, following him. He shouted at the top of his 


99 


LOfC 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


voice, hoping to frighten it away; but the blazing 
eyes only seemed to stand still. 

He urged his horse, which now appeared to be 
thoroughly frightened, when suddenly he stopped, 
and he could feel him quivering in every muscle. 
Urge as he would with whip and spur he would not 
budge. The air seemed to have a strange chill about 
it, and he heard the animal, whatever it was, bound 
away through the brush. 

He put his hand down on his horse’s shoulder ; he 
was trembling like a leaf and wet with sweat. There 
seemed to be something awful about to happen. 
Glancing over his shoulder, he either saw, or thought 
he saw, a long, bony hand on each of his shoulders ; 
and looking over his shoulder a face covered with 
long, white beard and head with snow-white hair, and 
in the sunken caverns of his face glowed two fiery eye- 
balls, like those he had seen on the mountain side. 

He tried to scream; his voice had left him. He 
tried to spring from his trembling horse ; he was as 
one paralyzed. 

Suddenly there came a fiash of lightning and a 
crash of thunder which shook the mountains to their 
very foundation; the horse sprang forward with a 
sudden bound, which came near throwing the Doctor 
to the ground. 

By the flash of lightning he saw a white cow in the 
100 


AN ADVENTURE 


road, which had evidently frightened the horse and 
made him stop. 

The nearest house the other side of Dead Man’s 
Hollow ” was Captain Smyth’s. Day was just be- 
ginning to dawn when the Doctor rode up to the 
Captain’s gate, got off, and knocked at the door. The 
genial Captain was up and had a big log fire burn- 
ing in the old-fashioned fireplace. 

He went to the door, and was surprised to find the 
Doctor his early visitor. 

Why, come in. Doctor. Where have you been 
this early in the morning, and what on earth is the 
white stuff you have all over your coat and your hat ? 
You haven’t been to mill this time of day, have you ? 
And you are as pale as a ghost ; are you sick ? ” 

The Doctor was quick-witted. He saw at a glance 
what his ghost had been. He had laid his hat 
down in some flour which Arnett had been using 
on his burnt leg, and had gotten it on his coat and 
shoulders. 

The blazing eyes of the catamount or wild cat he 
had just seen were photographed on the retina, and 
in the state of his excited nerves easily transferred to 
the face of the ghost of Dead Man’s Hollow,” whose 
snowy beard and hair was his white hat brim, and his 
bony hands his flour-sprinkled shoulders. He said : 

Captain Smyth, I am cold. You usually keep 
a little apple brandy. Can you give me a toddy ? ” 

101 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


Why, certainly, Doctor. I have just had one my- 
self, and will join you in another.’’ 

After the Doctor had gotten his toddy and had 
warmed by the log fire he told the Captain about the 
trick Arnett had played him, avoiding any reference 
to the river or Dead Man’s Hollow ” incident. 

The Captain said: 

Doctor, are you riding the horse you got from 
me ? How do you like him ? I hope you found no 
trouble with him at the river.” 

The Doctor replied : 

Oh, we got along very well considering how dark 
it was. He took me over and brought me back safe 
and sound. He travels well. How do you like the 
cow ? ” 

Doc, she can outkick a mule. My wife told me 
to take her hack to you — that a ^ light-headed horse ’ 
was better than a ^ kicking cow.’ I reckon you 
wouldn’t trade back, would you?’’ 

Hot without boot. Captain. The horse is all you 
represented him to be, and more. I will trade back 
with you for twenty-five dollars to boot.” 

The trade was closed ; the Doctor got the cow and 
twenty-five dollars to buy some new saddle bags. The 
Captain got his horse back to swap with someone else. 

In the years that have passed they have spent many 
a congenial hour over a bowl of hot apple toddy, dis- 
cussing who got the best of the trade. 

102 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


I. 

S I sit on my front porch and look out on the 
grand old Iron Mountain, as it lifts itself 
above the vapor that hangs lazily upon its 
sides, I am carried back twenty years to a 
lonely cove, where the rays of the sun are shut out by 
the dense foliage, and where a bright and bubbling 
spring of pure cold water leaps from its rocky bed 
and dashes off in its wild chase down the mountain 
side, through the pine-clad ridges to the broad valley 
below, spreading out like an ocean of green. 

In this lonely cove resided for many years Wilson 
Guy, a benefactor of his race. He was one-fourth 
Indian, as straight as the pines under which he lived, 
active and athletic, an everlasting friend to those he 
loved, an unrelenting foe to those he hated.. He was 
a man of strong passions, reckless and fond of ad- 
ventures. 

Being a man of unusual strength, and absolutely 
fearless, he was dangerous when excited or laboring 
under a sense of real or supposed injury. 

His father was a French Huguenot, of whom very 
103 




SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


little was known, having deserted his wife and left 
for parts unknown. 

His mother was a half-breed Catawba Indian, 
with all the characteristics of a full Indian. She had 
long, glossy, black hair, that reached nearly to the 
floor when she stood erect; was a remarkably hand- 
some woman with a superb figure. She was amiable, 
loving and affectionate, except when aroused or 
angered; then she was a perfect demon, as fierce as 
a wounded tigress. It was supposed her husband 
deserted her on this account.’’ 

It was from this parentage that Wilson Guy 
sprang, and it is little to be Avondered at that he in- 
herited strange characteristics. 

He was the only person I ever knew who possessed 
the remarkable combination of human intelligence 
and animal instinct. Being endowed with this pecu- 
liar power it was almost impossible to deceive him. 
He detested what he considered a coAvardly act, or 
taking an unfair advantage of an enemy, even if an 
animal. 

To illustrate: On one occasion he found the trail 
of a large bear, and true to his instinct, he folloAved 
it patiently and persistently up mountain sides and 
through mountain gorges, and along dangerous 
mountain passes, Avhere it would seem nothing but a 
Avild animal could go, till, turning a large boulder 
that jutted out from the mountain side, he came sud- 
104 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


denly upon his game, a large black bear, lying on a 
ledge of rock fast asleep. , 

There is no other animal that sleeps as soundly as 
a bear. It is sometimes difficult to awaken them. 
There he lay curled up in a ball, looking like a huge 
bundle of black fur. 

Instead of using his gun and dispatching him as he 
lay quietly sleeping he, without hesitation, drew from 
his belt his tomahawk and struck him a heavy blow 
on one of his huge paws as it lay upon the rock, dis- 
daining the cowardly act, as he conceived it, of killing 
his game while sleeping. 

Instantly his powerful adversary sprang up, and 
he found himself face to face in a hand-to-hand com- 
bat with the bear. In too close quarters to use his 
gun, he threw it to the ground and used his tomahawk. 

For a few moments they took it lick about like 
two pugilists, he making every lick count and dodging 
skillfully each blow of the bear. While the combat 
was going on the bear was all the while slowly re- 
treating towards a precipice some distance away, from 
the brink of which he could leap into the tree-tops 
below and make his escape, and finally made a rush 
for it, when the hunter seized him by the hair and 
mounted him. 

Having dropped his tomahawk, his only weapon 
left was his hunting knife. Holding on with his left 
hand he drew his knife from his belt and plunged it 
105 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


into the bear’s side, just behind the fore-shoulder, 
when he dropped like he had been shot, just as he 
reached the edge of the precipice. His head and fore- 
paws were hanging over — one foot farther and they 
would have gone hundreds of feet down the jagged 
rocks, when the career of Wilson Guy would have 
come to a close.” 

But such was not to be the end of this brave, reck- 
less, cunning, dangerous and, strange to say, this 
intensely 'pious man. 

His father having deserted his mother when he was 
a babe, and his mother having died when he was a 
mere boy, he had been raised by a family of white 
people, who taught him in their simple way the story 
of the Hazarene. 

Being a child of nature, true to his Indian in- 
stincts, he heard the voice of God in the whispering 
of the summer winds, and in the roar of the winter 
storms. He heard Him in the songs of the birds, and 
saw Him in the lightning’s glare. He worshipped 
Him in the red glow of the evening sunset, and in the 
pink hue of the morning’s dawn. He heard Him in 
the rush of the mountain torrent, and saw Him in the 
flash of its crystal water. He worshipped Him in his 
lonely cabin, and knelt reverently on the mountain 
cliffs. 'No time or place was the wrong time or the 
wrong place for him to worship God. ‘ 

The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, 
106 


WHIPPED i:XTO MANHOOD 


and all that dwell therein/’ was his creed. But his 
motto was in accord with his Indian nature : Do unto 
others as they do unto you — An eye for an eye, and 
a tooth for a tooth.” 


II. 

James Thompson, the humble woodsman with 
whom he went to live after the death of his mother, 
had an only daughter, Martha, several years his 
junior. They grew up together as brother and sister. 
He was wont to pluck for her the first ripe grapes 
from the rugged cliffs and the first blossoms of the 
wild honeysuckle and geraniums. He would carry 
her on his shoulder over the rough and dangerous 
mountain paths, and tell her in the winter evenings 
by the light wood fire the stories of his boyish imagi- 
nation of bears and wolves, till her cheeks would burn 
and she would look with frightened eyes at the door, 
and beg him not to tell her any more such scarey 
tale^,” then would slip off to bed and cover up her 
golden head, to shut out the frightful scenes. 

Thus it was they lived together and spent their 
childhood days, and he saw her bloom like a wild rose 
from childhood into womanhood, and she in turn 
learned to love and depend on him as her elder 
brother. 

Martha Thompson was the most beautiful woman 
I have ever seen. Her eyes were as blue as the sum- 
107 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


mer skies. Her hair was a color that cannot well 
be described. It was a dark, rich chestnut auburn, 
and the only hair I ever saw that sparkled in the 
sunshine. When standing erect and flowing loose it 
touched the floor, and was as wavy as curly walnut. 
Her skin was exceedingly fair, and was the color of a 
pink rose.Raf, except when she blushed — then it had 
the red tinge of coral blown into the pink. Her teeth 
were perfect, and their pure whiteness made a beauti- 
ful contrast with her red and delicately curved lips. 
Her nose was of perfect Grecian mould, and her left 
cheek when she smiled had a deep dimple, which left 
the merest trace when her face was composed. Her 
chin was the only feature that was not faultless. Her 
figure was superb, and every motion one of grace. 
She was graceful from her very cradle. She could 
no more help being graceful than she could keep from 
breathing. Her character was as beautiful and lovely 
as her person. 

Such was Martha Thompson when I first saw her, 
and when her foster brother left her home to shift 
for himself in the nearby mountain in hunting and 
trapping. 

His visits back to his adopted home were frequent, 
and he kept Martha well supplied with furs. The 
floor of her room was carpeted with bear skins, and 
he told his “ White Lily,” as he now called her, of 
his real adventures. 


108 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


III. 

In a broad, spreading valley, where the Holston 
Kiver wound like a silver thread through the green 
fields, and beneath the weeping willows there lived a 
prosperous farmer, whose red and white and spotted 
cattle made a beautiful and real picture as they 
grazed, dotting the green meadows here and there, 
and stood in the cool water up to their knees in the 
hot summer days, or browsed lazily under the shade 
of the trees. 

He was very wealthy and had an only son, then 
twenty years of age, on whose education he had spent 
thousands of dollars. He had sent him to high 
schools, colleges and universities, and had succeeded 
at last in educating him in athletics and in the high 
art of spending money in the most approved style of 
a regular college sport. He was an expert football 
player, and knew how to wear his hair long and 
shaggy. He could twirl the ball and bat a curve. He 
could pull the oars with the best of them, and with 
the boxing gloves he was second to none. He was 
leader of the Glee Club, and at poker, billiard and 
pool he was at home. He was handsome and of fine 
physique — an all-round college sport. 

During his vacations he had found the humble 
home of James Thompson and met his daughter Mar- 
tha. Being attracted by her beauty, he at once made 
109 


SOUTHEEN PLANTATION STOEIES 


up his mind that this mountain nymph, as he called 
her, should contribute to his luxurious tastes and 
pleasures during his leisure months at home. 

Martha being young and having never been thrown 
in the society of young men, was naturally very much 
pleased with the attentions of this handsome young 
college man, whose gentle manners were so pleasing. 
He made her handsome presents and sang his college 
songs, much to her pleasure and delight. She trusted 
him as she had done her foster brother, learning to 
look for his coming, and was unhappy and disap- 
pointed when the summers came if he did not soon 
come to see her. He would take long hunts with her 
foster brother, and made him presents of guns and 
pistols and hunting knives. 

But the animal instincts of Wilson Guy made him 
suspicious when Julian was with the White Lily.’’ 
He was not jealous of her as a lover, but he feared for 
her happiness, for when Julian was away at school he 
could see the shadows on her face and her merry 
laugh was not the same. Her life was changed. He 
began to regret that the White Lily ” had ever seen 
Julian, though he never suspected him of any wrong. 
His Indian nature bound him fast and true to a 
friend from whom he had accepted gifts and hos- 
pitality. 

The time had again arrived for Julian’s home- 
coming, and he brought Avith him a college mate to 
no 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


spend the vacation. They very soon came on a visit 
to Martha’s home, and brought a tent to spend a few 
days in camp life in the mountains. It was during 
this visit that Wilson’s eyes were opened and he saw 
the false game his friend was playing with Martha. 
He heard him say one night as he lay in his tent 
talking to his companion : 

Of course I do not intend to marry the mountain 
nymph, but I will make her think it is marriage, and 
it will be all the same to me, as I expect to leave 
for Europe to attend a German university, and will 
be absent for three years, and by that time she would 
be reconciled.” 

Then and there Wilson made up his mind to save 
Martha. The Indian sought his revenge. On the 
following day, when they were alone in the mountain 
on a trout stream fishing, he told Julian what he had 
overheard. Julian replied : 

You dog, you were sneaking about my tent in the 
night eavesdropping, were you ? ” 

Wilson replied, The dog watches the wolf in 
sheep’s clothing. I have killed many a wolf in these 
mountains.” 

Yes,” retorted Julian, I have thrashed many 
a dog, and I’ll thrash another one now for proAvling 
abut my tent at night and stealing my secrets.” 

He felt perfectly sure of whipping Wilson, being a 
trained athlete and boxer. He made a fierce blow 
111 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


for Wilson’s face, but as quick as a cat he dodged the 
blow, and Julian only struck the air, and with such 
force that he staggered forward, when Wilson tripped 
him and he plunged head first into the stream below. 

Cold water is bad for a mad wolf. Come out and 
dry yourself in the sun,” said Wilson. 

I’ll warm myself with the pleasant exercise of 
thrashing you, you half-breed dog! ” replied Julian. 

With this he made a rush for Wilson, who again 
skillfully side-stepped and struck him a powerful 
blow between the shoulders, knocking him flat on his 
face, when he leaped upon him with both feet, com- 
pletely knocking the breath out of him. 

He ran quickly to a leatherwood tree that stood 
near, and with his hunting knife peeled the bark off, 
twisting it into a rope, and tied his hands behind 
him, and bound his feet together. Then he went to 
the creek and brought water and bathed his head and 
face till he was restored to consciousness. He then 
bound him to a tree and made a whip of the bark. 

Julian said, Why have you bound me with these 
thongs and tied me to this tree ? ” 

When I get this whip made,” said Wilson, I am 
going to thrash the ^ mad wolf ’ within an inch of 
his life for his cruel and unfaithful treatment of the 
^ White Lily.’ ” 

If you strike me one blow with that whip,” said 
Julian, I will shoot you like the dog that you are ! ” 
112 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


You seem to bark very loud for a wolf that can- 
not bite. When you had your hands and feet free 
why didn’t you use them to some purpose ? You 
were as awkward as a bear. You could do nothing if 
you were free but snap and run. You are a coward 
and a thief. You would steal the ^ White Lily’s ’ 
happiness and beauty and, like a cowardly thief, steal 
away across the ocean and leave her to pine and die. 
I’ll thrash you with the whip and then leave you to 
die.” 

You half-breed hound ! don’t you know if you 
strike me with a whip I will kill you ? ” 

I will strike you and see. A man that is coward 
enough to wrong an innocent and trusting girl, and 
then flee across the ocean, is too much of a coward to 
shoot another, unless he could do it when he was 
asleep or shoot him in the back. I’ll strike you with 
the whip and then cut the thongs that bind you, and 
see what the cowardly wolf will do.” 

With this he struck him across the face with the 
whip, which left a mark as though he had burnt him 
with a hot iron. Then with his hunting knife he cut 
the thongs and freed him. 

Julian was no coward whatever else he may have 
been, and the accident of his having fallen in the 
creek, and the humiliation of having been knocked 
down and bound, which he also considered an acci- 
dent, in addition to having been struck in the face 
113 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


with a whip, made his blood boil, and his first im- 
pulse was to shoot his adversary in his tracks ; but he 
restrained himself while the Indian stood stolid and 
motionless, waiting for him to act. 

Why don’t you shoot me, as you said you would 
if I struck you with the whip ? The marks on your 
pale face will show for many a day that I kept my 
word.” 

That death would be too easy,” said Julian. I 
want to punish you before I kill you, and prove to 
you I am not the coward you think I am. I challenge 
you to fight me a hand-to-hand fight, and after I have 
whipped you we will step ten paces and I will finish 
the job by shooting you.” 

Julian felt that with his years of training in box- 
ing lessons and being the athlete he was it would be 
an easy matter to outdo this untrained half-breed. 
Then he took little risk in the pistol duel, since he 
could shoot the spots out of a card at ten steps as 
accurately as if they had been cut out. 

The Indian very readily accepted the challenge. 
Julian went to the creek and bathed his face, still 
smarting and burning from the lash of the whip. 
The Indian stood motionless, waiting for him to an- 
nounce his readiness for the combat. 

Returning at last, he told him to prepare to defend 
himself, and the battle was on. Instead of knocking 
Wilson down, as he supposed he would do at the first 
114 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


pass, he found it impossible to strike him, he was so 
agile and quick of motion. He would avoid a blow 
as if by magic, till Julian found himself gradually 
losing strength, while the Indian did not seem in the 
least wearied. 

Finally the Indian, as quick as a flash, in an un- 
guarded moment rushed at Julian, and stooping, 
caught him below the knees and threw him over his 
head into the creek. The bone in Julian’s right arm 
snapped like a pine stick. 

When Julian came out he found it was useless to 
continue the fight with a broken arm. He said : 

You have won this fight. My right arm is 
broken; we will continue the fight with pistols.” 

He did not tell how frightfully his arm was broken 
and mangled. They selected their pistols, stepped 
the distance, and were preparing to fire when Julian 
fell in a faint. The Indian stood waiting, thinking it 
was some trick to catch him, but held his fire. Seeing 
Julian did not move, he went to him and found him 
unconscious. He ran to the creek, brought water, and 
was bathing his head when Martha Thompson, who 
knew nothing of what had been going on, appeared on 
the scene. She had been hunting for them for hours, 
with an important message for Julian. Seeing him 
on the ground and Wilson by his side, she ran to 
them. When she saw Julian’s pale face with the red 
scar across it she exclaimed : 


115 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


What has happened ^ ’’ 

The Indian replied, He is hurt.’’ 

She looked quickly at the Indian, but seeing noth- 
ing in his stolid face, she ran to the creek for more 
water. While she was gone Julian opened his eyes, 
and seeing her coming with the water, said to the 
Indian : 

Promise me you will not tell her what has hap- 
pened.” 

The Indian bowed his head in assent. Martha 
again said : 

* What has happened ? How did you get hurt ? ” 

I fell and have broken my arm.” 

They attempted to lift him into a sitting posture, 
and again he fainted. The blood was flowing freely. 
They hastily cut open the sleeve and found the bone 
driven through the flesh, and the blood spurting in 
jets. An artery had been wounded. The Indian 
bound it tightly with the leatherwood thong and 
stopped the blood. He then pulled the arm straight 
and the bone back through the wound to its place. 
They bound it securely with a bandage made from 
Martha’s apron. The Indian said to Martha : 

You must go for the doctor, and I will carry him 
to your father’s house.” 

The home was two miles away and over rough 
mountain paths. Martha was gone in a moment, and 
116 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


the Indian sat waiting for Julian to regain conscious- 
ness. He very soon opened his eyes, and not seeing 
Martha, asked where she" was. Wilson told him she 
had gone for the doctor, and that he would carry him 
to the house. 

How can you do that over these mountain 
roads ? ’’ said Julian. 

You must assist me some. You must put your 
good arm around my neck and I will take you on my 
back, if you can hold on. I can carry you safely.’’ 

I want you,” said Julian, to make me a vow 
that you will not tell anything about our fight or the 
cause of it till I recover.” 

If,” said Wilson, you will promise me you will 
nof cross Martha’s path again, and let her be happy 
in her own home, I will keep your secret.” 

I promise I will not make her unhappy if I can 
help it.” 

I accept your promise ; but beware ! if you wrong 
her I will kill you ! ” 

Julian having recovered somewhat, Wilson took 
him on his back and carried him safely out of the 
mountain to James Thompson’s cabin. The doctor 
and Martha were not long in arriving. The fracture 
and the wound were bad ones, but in due course of 
time Julian was able to be moved to his home, where 
he made a good recovery. Martha nursed him pa- 
117 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


tiently and faithfully while he was in her father’s 
house. 

During Julian’s stay, as he watched the beautiful, 
graceful and innocent girl, as she moved about the 
house, anticipating his every want and comfort, and 
when he remembered his present affliction was the 
result of the foul plot to ruin her beautiful young life, 
he cursed himself and blessed Wilson Guy for saving 
him from himself, and her from the trap he had set 
for her destruction. 

While he was at home he disclosed to his father 
and mother his determination to marry Martha 
Thompson. They were surprised and indignant, but 
he was inflexible in his purpose. The sham license 
was changed for a genuine one, and Martha Thomp- 
son became the bride of Julian Guthrie. Instead of 
putting the ocean between them he took her with him 
to Germany as his wife. 

They remained in Europe three years, and when 
they returned all the shyness of the mountain girl 
had disappeared, and Julian Guthrie had the most 
beautiful and attractive wife in all this country, and 
he became one of the most substantial and reliable 
men in the State. 

Wilson Guy, the hermit hunter and half-breed In- 
dian, still lives, and loves and worships in the lonely 
cove in Iron Mountain, and is a frequent visitor to 
the home of Julian, and though fond of telling of 
118 


WHIPPED INTO MANHOOD 


his numerous adventures, has never from that day to 
this referred to this incident. 

Mr. Guthrie, however, on all occasions laughs and 
tells how Wilson whipped a college sport into man- 
hood.” 


4 


119 









THE MEANEST MAN IN THE WOELH 


WENTY-EIVE years ago Mattie Erencli was 
a beautiful, fascinating girl — a reigning 
belle. Sbe was not only beautiful in person, 
but had charming manners, and possessed a 
lovely character. Though she was a leader of social 
life, she was also the friend of those in the humbler 
walks of life. Wherever there was comfort or aid 
required, there Mattie French was to be found. 

Being universally admired by men, it was com- 
monly considered that she could have her choice of 
any of her admirers whenever she would consent to 
marry. Everybody was amazed when it was rumored 
that she was engaged to Frank Marks, a man without 
character or occupation, a drinking man and a gam- 
bler. No argument or warning served to change her 
decision, so she married Frank Marks. It was a 
repetition of the same old story. Mrs. Marks was 
never heard to complain or regret her choice, though 
there had been threats to lynch Marks for his brutal 
treatment of his wife. 

In the month of February, one Sunday night about 
one o’clock (I distinctly remember the month, be- 
121 



SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


cause it was spring weather, although still winter) 
the town had grown quiet and the people had gone 
to rest. The moonbeams behind the fleecy clouds 
made them look light as they flew before a strong 
gale. At intervals the face of the moon would show 
through a rift in the clouds. On that day they had 
heard the oft-repeated words, Blessed are the meek, 
for they shall inherit the earth,’’ Blessed are the 
peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of 
God,” and other beatitudes. But the same fierce 
struggle for supremacy that has been going on ever 
since the mother of Zebedee’s children said unto the 
Master: “ Grant that these my two sons may sit, the 
one on Thy right hand, and the other on Thy left, in 
Thy Kingdom,” was to begin at dawn. 

I had just returned to my office from one of the 
most pathetic scenes I had ever witnessed, and was 
disturbed mentally, physically and spiritually^ Mrs. 
Marks had exclaimed as I entered her room : Oh, 
my God ! my poor babe is dying ! How can I ever 
give her up ? ” There was all the anguish of a broken 
heart embraced in her words. Suffer the little chil- 
dren to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of 
such is the Kingdom of God,” was the only reply I 
could make, for the little sufferer had already obeyed 
the summons. The poor mother held only the lifeless 
body of her babe. 

The silence grew oppressive; the flickering shad- 
122 


THE MEANEST MAN IN THE WORLD 


ows on the wall made by a coal oil lamp without a 
chimney gave the silent mother a deathly pallor. 

Mrs. Marks/^ I said, let me lay the little body 
in the cradle.’’ There was no reply. I repeated the 
question. Still she made no response. I then went 
to her and was shocked to find that she had followed 
her babe to the very gate of Heaven. I did not move 
then, but went softly out, closed the door, and left 
them to welcome the drunken, brutal husband when 
he returned. Happily they were beyond his curses 
and abuse, and I hoped the shock might bring him to 
his senses. Heturning to my office, I threw myself 
on a couch, and was soon asleep and did not wake 
until called to breakfast. 

While eating at the table I glanced over the morn- 
ing paper, and saw in big headlines : Mrs. Marks 
and Baby Murdered Last Hight by Her Drunken 
Husband! Marks Arrested and in Jail. Has Made 
Full Confession of the Horrible Crime ! ” 

I was dumbfounded at this statement. Why should 
Marks have confessed to the murder of his wife and 
child ? The notice read that Marks in his confession 
had stated that he came home drunk and found his 
wife sitting in a chair with the baby in her lap. He 
had asked her for food, and she made no reply. He 
again demanded something to eat, and still she made 
no reply. He became enraged and struck her on the 
head with a club, and kicked at her after she had 
123 


SOUTHERN PLANTATION STORIES 


fallen, and in so doing accidentally kicked the baby. 
Marks had been found asleep in an adjoining room, 
and the mother and babe dead on the floor. The in- 
quest was to be held at nine o’clock that morning. 

Promptly at nine o’clock I went to the house, hav- 
ing resolved that at present I would say nothing. 'No 
one had seen me enter the house or leave it. I waited 
to see what the inquest would develop. The jurors 
were duly sworn, and there were but two witnesses. 
A neighbor to Mrs. Marks testifled That she knew 
Mrs. Marks’ babe was sick, and had gone in early in 
the morning to see about it, and had found them both 
dead on the floor, and Marks in an adjoining room 
in bed with his clothes and boots on. She was afraid 
to wake him, and had called in a policeman, who 
found everything as she had stated.” 

The policeman testified that he had awakened 
Marks out of a drunken slumber, and asked him why 
he had been beating his wife ? He repeated that he 
had struck her only once because she would not 
give him any supper. He said he did not intend to 
kick the baby; he kicked at his wife and struck the 
baby, but had not hurt it for it did not cry. The 
policeman asked him what he had struck his wife 
Avith, and Marks replied, With a club.” When 
asked if he had hurt her much, he replied that he 
thought not as he had often struck her harder than 
that. The policeman then asked him if he knocked 
124 


THE MEANEST MAN IN THE WORLD 


her down. He replied that she had fallen out of the 
chair to keep him from striking her any more, but 
that he had not struck her hard. He was then told 
lie had struck hard enough to break her skull, and 
had kicked the baby hard enough to kill it, and that 
they were both dead on the floor. 

This seemed to bring Marks to his senses. Im- 
possible,’’ he cried, and rushing into the room, he 
gazed terror-stricken at his wife and child as they 
lay dead on the floor. Then he cried out : My 

God ! I have murdered my wife and babe.” Marks 
was placed under arrest by the policeman and taken 
to jail. 

Marks made this same statement. The case was 
so plain that no other witnesses were called. The 
prisoner was remanded to jail to await the action of 
the grand jury. In due course the grand jury 
found a true bill for murder in the first degree. He 
was tried, convicted and sentenced to be hanged on 
the twenty-second day of March. There appeared 
to be absolutely no extenuating circumstances, since 
Marks had admitted that he knew what he was doing 
when he struck his wife. 

The day for the execution arrived, and I sent for 
the Commonwealth’s Attorney and told him to wire 
the Governor for a reprieve, as I had positive 
evidence that Marks did not murder his wife and 
child. He was thunderstruck and wanted to know 
125 


SOUTHEKN PLANTATION STORIES 


what the evidence was. I told him they had both 
died from natural causes, that I was present and 
witnessed their deaths. 

Doctor, you are under the influence of an opiate. 
You are dreaming. It is impossible that you saw 
these people die, when Marks has confessed to hav- 
ing killed them.’’ 

Yes,” said I, he has not only confessed, but 
in the very depths of his soul believes, that he mur- 
dered them. But they were dead when he came 
home; dead when he struck his wife.” 

I again related all the circumstances and convinced 
him of the truth of my statement. 

He telegraphed the Governor that new evidence 
had been discovered, and to stay the execution until 
it could be investigated. At the last moment a mes- 
sage staying the execution was received. The case 
was reopened and I satisfled the court and jury that 
Frank Marks did not murder his wife and babe, and 
he was acquitted. He was more rejoiced to know 
he had not murdered them than he was to escape the 
gallows. 

How can I ever thank you or show my debt of 
gratitude ? ” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with 
deep emotion. The debt can never in this world 
be paid by words or by deeds. I am willing to be 
your slave the remainder of my days.” 

The shock accomplished my purpose; it made a 
126 


THE MEANEST MAN IN THE WOELD 


sober man of Marks. He was 'never known to take 
another drink, and became prosperous in business. 
Years after I had reverses and was hard pressed for 
money. I had a note against Marks for sixty dol- 
lars, for medical services which I had rendered him 
in a serious case of illness. His life had been saved 
only by my careful attention, and the faithful, 
patient nursing of his wife. I presented the note to 
him for payment, and though abundantly able to 
pay it, he refused to do so unless I would deduct the 
interest. This I declined to do. He then pleaded 
statute of limitation on the note and evaded payment. 


127 








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